i. 


NEW  ADVENTURES 

MICHAEL    MONAHAN 


NEW 
ADVENTURES 


BY 


MICHAEL    MONAHAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "PALMS  OF  PAPYRUS," 
NOVA  HIBEKNIA,"  "  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  VAN,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PHELAN 

Copyright,  1917,  by 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


P535.25 


to 

JOHN  QUINN 
A  GESTURE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  AND  ADMIRATION 


774.4:23 


Tons  les  livres  en  general  et  meme  les  plus  admirables 
me  paraissent  infiniment  moins  precieux  par  ce  qu'ils  con- 
tiennent  que  par  ce  qu'y  met  celui  qui  les  lit.  Les 
meilleurs,  a  mon  sens,  sont  ceux  qui  donnent  le  plus  a 
penser,  et  les  choses  les  plus  diverses. 

ANATOLE  FRANCE. 


CONTENTS 

MANNAHATTA 

PAGE 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 15 

A  HOLIDAY  IN  GOTHAM 19 

TRIAL  BY  NEWSPAPER 25 

OUR  "BRAND  OF  CAIN" 29 

THE  SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY: 

An  Elizabethan  Performance 37 

Sir  Herbert  Tree's  "Shylock" 42 

A  Shakespearian  Exhibit 51 

MANNAHATTA    II 

SPAGHETTI 57 

NEWYORKITIS 61 

OLD  MEN  FOR  LOVE 64 

THE  CRAZE  FOR  BEAUTY 69 

CHANGES  IN  BABYLON 74 

THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 78 

THE  MORGAN  LIBRARY 83 

IN  NUBIBUS 91 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

PAGE 

ONE             BALZAC  THE  LOVER 99 

Two             BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 122 

THREE          THE  FORTUNATE  HOAX  OF  PAGAN  WAS- 

TENEYS    145 

FOUR            THE  MAID  AGAIN 160 

FIVE             OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 169 

Six              ALMA  LUPA  187 

SEVEN          A  NOTE  ON  LAFCADIO  HEARN 193 

EIGHT          THE  Kiss  199 

NINE            THE  "FREE"  POETS 206 

REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

ONE             BERMUDA    219 

Two             BERMUDA  II 231 

THREE          THE  CONQUEROR  247 

FOUR            Two  PICTURES 257 

FIVE             THE   COLLECTOR    264 

Six               THE  PENMAN    274 

SEVEN          CHANTICLEER  280 

EIGHT          THE  CIRCUS  288 

NINE            NOCTURNE 299 

TEN             YEARNINGS  .  310 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

ELEVEN        PLATONICS    322 

TWELVE        FALSE  YOUTH    328 

THIRTEEN     GHOSTS    335 

FOURTEEN    THE  AGE  OF  SAFETY 342 

FIFTEEN       REST    347 

LAGNIAPPE 

ONE  PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE: 

The  Literary  Motive 355 

Truths  and  Truisms 361 

The  Woman 366 

Two             THE  GRAIN  OF  WHEAT 370 


MANNAHATTA 


MANNAHATTA 


THE    CALL    OF    THE    CITY 


/  was  asking  for  something  specific  and  perfect  for  my  city, 
Whereupon,  lo!  upsprang  the  aboriginal  name! 

— WALT  WHITMAN. 


HE  THAT  has  once  felt  the  spell  of  Manna- 
hatta  will,  if  the  fates  permit,  return  to  her 
again  and  still  again.  In  other  and  lesser  cities, 
on  the  waste  of  ocean,  in  rural  solitudes  or  desert 
places,  the  call  of  the  mighty  Mother  will  reach 
him,  and  perforce  he  will  gird  up  his  loins  and 
obey. 

This  may  be  put  forth  as  a  more  or  less  poetical 
statement  of  a  fact  both  simple  and  psychological. 
He  that  has  drunk  will  drink,  says  the  French 
proverb;  and  he  that  has  known  Mannahatta 
—literally  drunk  her,  for  she  is  herself  a  mighty 
intoxication, — will  always  go  back  athirst  for  the 
cordials  she  alone  can  supply. 

And  so  it  was  that,  along  about  the  middle  of 
the  past  May,  I  began  to  feel  in  my  blood  a  sum 
mons  which  I  have  come  to  know  quite  well — the 

[15] 


MANNAHATTA 

call  of  Mannahatta.  I  was  not  sorry,  for  the 
Connecticut  winter,  then  barely  ended,  had  been 
the  longest  and  coldest  in  my  memory.  The  mere 
effort  to  keep  physically  alive  had  impoverished 
the  spiritual  man.  Also  I  had  grown  weary  of 
the  Connecticut  face,  not  over-attractive  in  either 
man  or  woman  in  these  parts;  and  there  were 
alarming  symptoms  that  I  was  taking  on  the 
Connecticut  mind.  It  was  May,  as  I  have  said, 
and  we  were  still  wearing  overcoats  and  sleeping 
under  heavy  blankets.  The  newspapers  were 
recalling  a  certain  Connecticut  year  when  the 
summer  had  been  lost  from  the  calendar  (this 
no  doubt  a  just  visitation  upon  the  pleasure- 
hating  puritans).  My  thoughts  would  not  flow; 
my  ink-pot  derided  me;  I  tasted  the  cruel  despair 
of  the  man  who  begins  to  fail  in  his  natural  voca 
tion.  Something  had  to  be  done,  and  quickly  too! 
I  will  arise,  I  said,  and  go  to  my  mother  Manna 
hatta,  for  she  alone  can  heal  me. 

Thereupon  I  fled  with  a  single  grip,  delighted 
as  a  man  should  be  who  runs  away  from  a  hard 
job  to  snatch  a  precarious  holiday.  Nor  did  I 
pause  until  I  had  snugly  ensconced  myself  in  the 
very  heart  of  Mannahatta.  .  .  . 
[16] 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

Balzac  somewhere  shrewdly  observes  the  persist 
ence  of  the  vital  spark  in  the  sick  in  the  crowded 
quarters  of  a  great  city  where  the  strong  current 
of  human  life  rises  to  the  full.  It  is  a  good 
thought  and  a  cheering  one.  Life  begets  life  and 
the  desire  of  living;  human  companionship  is 
almost  the  condition  of  existence.  The  hermits 
who  have  lived  long  in  their  solitude  are  memo 
rable  instances — because  there  have  been  so  few 
hermits.  Secular  age  and  health  pass  without 
comment  in  the  immense  human  hives  where  they 
are  too  familiar  to  challenge  remark.  The  com 
mon  notion  that  people  live  longer  in  the  country 
than  in  the  city,  is  wrong,  like  so  many  other 
received  ideas:  the  truth  is,  they  die  earlier  and 
faster  in  the  country,  and  the  earlier  and  the  faster 
in  direct  ratio  to  the  lack  of  companionship. 
Solitude  is  the  best  known  aid  to  the  madhouse 
and  the  cemetery — even  the  solitude  of  open  fields 
and  healthful  skies.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are 
in  the  densely  populated  ghettos  of  Vienna,  of 
London  and  of  New  York,  surrounded  by  condi 
tions  that  would  seem  to  make  health  impossible, 
persons  so  old  that  time  appears  to  have  passed 
them  by. 

[17] 


MANNAHATTA 

Do  you  want  to  live  and  live  long? — then  be 
where  men  and  women  are  living,  loving  and  prop 
agating  life.  Borrow  from  the  universal  vital 
force.  Draw  on  the  common  fund  of  health  and 
energy.  Drink  from  the  full-flowing  stream  of 
life.  Deep  calls  unto  deep  and  heart  unto  heart! 
With  a  million  hearts  beating  around  you,  with  a 
million  pulses  challenging  and  inciting  your  own, 
how  can  you  fail  to  keep  time  to  the  great  rhyth 
mic  harmony?  From  all  these  you  derive  strength 
and  hope  and  encouragement ;  every  throb  of  every 
one  of  them  all  is  a  summons  to  live — to  live- 
to  live! 

Now  of  this  hear  a  proof.  It  seemed  to  me,  as 
in  an  evil  dream,  that  I  had  long  been  sad  and 
dejected,  brooding  over  unhappiness  and  poison 
ing  my  blood  with  the  black  viper-doubts  that 
strike  into  the  very  heart  of  life;  believing  my 
heritage  of  length  of  days  to  be  forfeited;  shun 
ning  the  cheerful  society  of  my  fellows;  keeping 
alone  with  a  swarm  of  morbid  fears  and  fancies; 
looking  on  life  with  the  lost  gaze  of  one  who 
divines  everywhere  an  unseen  but  exultant  and 
implacable  enemy. 

Then,  at  last,  I  yielded  to  the  bidding  of  a 
[18] 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  GOTHAM 

kinder  spirit.  I  threw  off  the  nightmare  and 
mingled  again  with  my  kind.  I  went  where  men 
and  women  were  merry  with  feast  and  dance,  with 
wine  and  music  and  song.  I  looked  for  the  joy 
of  the  human  face  and  did  not  look  in  vain.  I 
recovered  in  a  moment  my  old  birthright  of  hope 
and  happiness.  My  heart,  so  long  drooping,  rose 
at  the  compelling  summons  of  life  about  me:  the 
old  desire  to  live  and  love  sprung  up  anew  in  me 
to  hail  the  red  flag  in  a  woman's  cheek  and  the 
bright  challenge  of  her  eyes.  I  filled  my  glass 
and  at  the  bidding  of  Beauty  and  Joy  devoted  my 
ancient  sick  fears  to  perdition.  I  was  merry  with 
the  rest,  aye,  merry  with  the  maddest;  and  since 
that  hour  ...  I  live  ...  I  live  ...  I  live! 

A  HOLIDAY   IN  GOTHAM 

E  PRESENT  scribe  has  known  New 
York,  "  on  and  off,"  more  or  less  intimately 
during  twenty-five  years,  but  his  very  first  intro 
duction  occurred  when  he  was  a  little  boy  of  six 
years — a  good  bit  farther  back.  So  he  has  fully 
experienced  the  lure  of  the  Great  City  mentioned 
above,  and  this  the  more  that  in  his  youth  he  was 

[19] 


MANNAHATTA 

a  shade  too  curious  perhaps  about  lures  of  every 
species. 

I  may  then  claim,  as  the  phrase  goes,  to  know 
my  New  York.  I  have  been  away  from  it  years 
at  a  time.  I  have  also  lived  years  within  its  gates ; 
I  have  "  commuted  "  to  it  from  Jersey  and  points 
above  the  Harlem  river.  The  great  changes  which 
the  City  has  undergone  in  the  past  quarter-century 
are  quite  familiar  to  me.  I  knew  it  before  the 
great  Russian-Jewish  immigration,  when  it  was 
almost  an  American  city,  instead  of  as  now,  in 
many  sections,  a  predominantly  foreign  one.  I 
knew  Fifth  Avenue  before  it  was  invaded  by 
trade,  when  its  proud  pavements  were  unpressed 
by  the  present  hordes  of  Yiddish-speaking  toilers 
—those  wonderful  people,  creators  of  new  wealth 
and  new  problems,  who  will  have  much  to  say  in 
the  future  destiny  of  New  York.  I  witnessed  the 
rise  of  the  sky-scrapers,  from  the  '  World's " 
gilded  dome  to  the  loftier  turret  of  the  Woolworth 
Building,  which  give  New  York  a  certain 
grandiose  distinction  among  the  great  cities  of 
the  world.  I  saw  the  first  shovelful  taken  for 
the  first  Subway,  and  I  waited  for  the  opening 
of  the  Hudson  Tunnel,  which  seems  to  have  been 
[20] 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  GOTHAM 

but  the  other  day,  while — such  is  the  tremendous 
march  of  the  city's  life — it  is  already  spoken  of 
as  a  thing  of  ancient  date.  I  saw  the  City  fling 
out  long  arms  in  order  to  bring  to  herself  the 
cities  and  towns  that  make  her  boroughs  of  Brook 
lyn  and  Queen's  and  the  Bronx.  Nay,  in  the 
span  of  years  mentioned  I  have  seen  her  become 
the  first  City  in  the  world! 

But  hear  now  a  truth.  If  one's  lot  is  cast  among 
so  many  and  so  great  marvels;  if  he  is,  moreover, 
obliged  to  hug  his  own  personal  problems  in  the 
midst  of  them,  then  is  he  apt  to  lose  the  due  sense 
of  wonder.  That  was  something  my  own  case 
when  I  dwelt  within  the  gates  of  Gotham.  Hence 
my  keen  desire  to  see  her  as  a  visitor  in  holiday 
mood. 

And  I  was  not  disappointed.  There  is  an  elec 
tric,  exhilarating  something  in  the  air, — an  invi 
tation  to  be  happy,  as  it  were, — which  no  other 
American  city  offers,  and  which  Paris  alone  pos 
sesses  in  greater  degree — that  is,  in  perfection. 
There  is  illusion  about  this,  of  course,  for  New 
York  behind  her  gay,  smiling  welcome  is  cruel, 
more  cruel  than  Paris,  and  also  not  less  calculating 
as  regards  the  prices  she  exacts  from  the  seekers  of 

[21] 


MANNAHATTA 

pleasure.  But  this  is  not  a  thought  with  which  to 
plague  your  holiday  with  our  Lady  of  Manhattan. 
Yes,  you  can  be  as  happy  as  you  please  in  New 
York,  dear  reader,  especially  if  you  have  the 
wherewithal  that  pays  the  dues  of  happiness; 
money  indeed  is  very  necessary,  and  New  York 
looks  askance  at  him  who  has  it  not.  But  even 
this  is  but  a  partial  truth,  for  as  Richard  of  the 
Quest  has  wisely  said,  our  Paradises  are  often 
cheap — it  is  our  Hells  that  cost  us  so  dear.  New 
York  spreads  a  feast  for  the  eye  and  ear  of  him 
who  hath  but  little  money  in  his  scrip,  and  I  felt 
this  as  never  before  when  on  the  afternoon  of  my 
arrival  (to  make  the  most  of  my  scant  liberty) 
I  rolled  up  Fifth  Avenue,  gallantly  perched  on  the 
hurricane  deck  of  a  Green  Bus.  This  is  one  of 
the  cheapest  and  best  pleasures  that  the  City  has 
to  offer;  he  need  not  lack  it  who  may  command 
the  tenth  part  of  a  Broad  Piece.  You  deposit 
your  dime  in  a  box  which  the  guard  or  conductor 
presents  to  you;  he  is  not  allowed  to  put  in  the 
fare  himself.  Such  a  precaution,  you  think,  might 
humiliate  an  honest  man,  and  the  farther  you  go 
the  more  you  are  convinced  that  common  honesty 
is  not  much  regarded,  nor  taken  for  granted,  in 
[22] 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  GOTHAM 

New  York.  Tipping  is  for  once  out  of  the 
question,  and  the  decent  visitor  may  voyage 
heart-free  along  the  richest  thoroughfare  in  the 
world. 

The  day  was  one  of  splendid  sunshine,  and  the 
avenue  presented  the  most  brilliant  and  animated 
spectacle  that  one  could  wish  for,  the  roadway 
being  fairly  a-swarm  with  the  automobiles  of  the 
rich,  while  the  sidewalks  were  thronged  with  prom- 
enaders,  especially  women  in  bright  spring  toilets 
(we  are  now  in  the  favoured  region  above  Forty- 
second  street) .  Majestic  at  the  crossways  stand  the 
giants  of  the  New  York  police,  giving  rule  and 
order  to  the  confluent  and  opposing  tides  of  the 
avenue.  No  trivial  duty  theirs;  one  has  but  to 
think  of  what  consequences  would  attend  a  single 
minute  of  anarchy  in  the  government  of  these  two 
great  processions.  No  class  of  men  have  been 
more  savagely  and  wantonly  abused  than  the  New 
York  police,  and  it  well  may  be  that  there  is  a 
dark  side  to  the  shield.  But  I  am  not  the  less  sure 
that  they  have  never  had  due  credit  for  their  ster 
ling  virtues  and  the  uncommon  heroism  which  they 
so  often  exhibit  in  serving  law  and  order  and  hu 
man  life.  In  all  my  experience  of  New  York,  I 

[23] 


MANNAHATTA 

have  never  seen  a  policeman  misconduct  himself, 
and  I  have  never  been  rudely  treated  by  one.  This 
will  seem  astonishing  to  people  who  get  their  im 
pressions  of  the  New  York  police  from  a  certain 
kind  of  lurid  fiction,  or  from  newspapers  with  a 
political  axe  to  grind.  In  point  of  fact,  nothing  is 
ever  so  bad  in  New  York  as  the  newspapers  make 
it  out  to  be,  which  newspapers  derive  a  profit  from 
defaming  the  city  to  the  country-at-large.  Most 
of  the  crazy  notions  relative  to  New  York,  which 
are  especially  cherished  by  strangers  and  foreign 
ers,  are  due  to  a  lot  of  hack  writers,  scribblers  of 
patent  inside  stuff  for  country  weeklies,  who  lack 
ability  to  present  a  correct  picture  even  of  a  New 
York  policeman.  Certainly  no  great  city  has  ever 
suffered  so  much  from  libellers  within  its  own 
gates. 

So  thinking,  I  leaned  over  the  rail  of  our  green 
chariot  and  gratefully  saluted  a  crossing  guardian. 
Again  luck  was  with  me,  for  he  courteously 
returned  the  salute  (something  almost  unheard 
of  in  the  newspaper  legend).  Then  we  turned 
west  and  fared  gaily  on  toward  Riverside  Drive 
and  the  castled  heights  of  those  envied  apartment 
folk  who  pay  rentals  of  from  ten  to  twenty-five 
[24] 


TRIAL  BY  NEWSPAPER 

thousand  a  year.  A  domain  of  imposing  fronts, 
gorgeous  courts  and  porter-guarded  inaccessible- 
ness;  in  fact,  Apartmentaria  seems  to  offer  every 
thing  that  wealth  could  desire.  And  surely  wealth 
in  New  York  was  never  more  conscious  of  itself 
than  it  is  to-day.  Happily  there  was  no  "  barker  " 
on  our  coach  to  blare  out,  in  an  East  Side  accent, 
the  wigwams  of  the  many-dollared ;  I  will  here 
observe  a  like  reticence. 

TRIAL  BY  NEWSPAPER 

AS  EVERYBODY  knows,  New  York  is— the 
Woman!  It  is  the  most  feminized  of  all 
our  cities;  the  one  in  which  American  woman- 
worship  is  carried  to  the  wildest  extreme;  the  one 
in  which  scarcely  anything  is  done  without  refer 
ence  to  the  Eternal  Feminine.  Almost  comic  is 
the  universal  preoccupation  with  sex,  as  reflected 
in  the  newspapers,  the  magazines,  the  theatres,  the 
cafe  life,  everywhere.  And  (though  I  am  the 
first  to  announce  it)  the  true  symbol  of  New  York 
is  the  Powder  Puff.  This  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  she  has  so  far  refused  the  ballot  to  women. 
But  there  is  a  difference  to  note:  New  York 

[25] 


MANNAHATTA 

loves  women  for  their  beauty  and  the  pleasure 
they  can  give,  not  for  their  intellectual  qualities. 
The  first  typical  New  York  woman  you  see  on 
Fifth  Avenue  tells  the  story : — her  dress,  her  man 
ner,  her  allure,  the  very  atmosphere  she  creates 
about  herself,  all  declare  the  human  orchid  of 
intense  sex-cultivation.  The  New  York  woman 
is  notoriously  the  most  sex-conscious  in  America, 
and  she  cares  nothing  for  the  ballot.  She  wants 
to  rule  men  in  the  way  of  the  ancient  sovereignty 
of  her  sex,  and  she  is  anathema  to  the  man-hating 
suffragette. 

When  you  see  a  perfect  specimen  of  this  type, 
you  will  readily  admit  that  she  is  worth  all  the 
trouble  she  occasionally  makes  and  all  the  money 
that  men  lavish  upon  her.  She  is  the  woman  whom 
one  is  tempted  to  personify  as  New  York. 

This  woman,  proud,  beautiful,  sex-conscious, 
miraculously  expensive,  is  the  spoiled  darling  of 
Gotham,  but,  of  course,  there  is  not  a  majority 
of  her  kind.  Even  in  Manhattan  one  sees  many 
a  woman  who  could  not  be  anybody's  darling,  and 
such  women,  it  is  unkindly  said,  are  the  chief  hope 
of  the  suffrage  cause. 

New  York  is  so  thoroughly  feminized  in  the  way 
[26] 


TRIAL  BY  NEWSPAPER 

I  have  suggested,  that  it  is  next  to  impossible 
to  convict  a  woman  of  a  capital  crime.  The 
singular  process  known  as  Trial  by  Newspaper, 
here  carried  to  a  point  of  perfection,  can 
almost  always  be  relied  upon  to  get  the  woman 
off. 

While  I  was  in  the  City  a  woman  was  acquitted 
of  the  charge  of  murdering  her  two  infant  chil 
dren,  the  fruit  of  an  illicit  passion.  The  fact  that 
she  gave  them  poison  which  caused  their  death 
was  not  disputed.  On  her  behalf,  there  was  medi 
cal  testimony  of  the  usual  wabbling,  inconclusive 
sort,  to  prove  that  she  was  deranged  when  the 
crime  was  committed.  In  further  mitigation,  it 
was  pleaded  that  she  took  the  poison  herself  in  a 
sufficient  quantity  to  kill;  but  in  spite  of  obvious 
juggling  and  collusion  on  the  part  of  certain  wit 
nesses,  this  was  not  established.  Nevertheless,  the 
woman  went  free,  amid  a  great  trumpeting  of  the 
newspapers  and  with  every  sign  of  the  public 
approval.  Nay,  even  the  District  Attorney  who 
had  prosecuted  her,  though  fully  convinced  of  her 
guilt,  hastened  to  offer  his  congratulations.  Fem 
inism  had  secured  the  acquittal  of  this  woman,  who 
in  England  or  in  Canada  would  have  been  sum- 

[27] 


MANNAHATTA 

marily  convicted  and,  if  not  hanged,  sent  to  prison 
for  life. 

The  singular  issue  of  this  case  vindicates  the 
importance  of  Trial  by  Newspaper.  During  many 
months  before  this  woman  was  brought  to  the  bar, 
her  case  was  constantly  agitated,  featured  and 
discussed  in  the  newspapers.  It  was  precisely 
the  kind  of  stuff  they  love  to  handle,  with  love, 
seduction,  crime,  and  all  manner  of  sexual  sugges- 
tiveness,  as  the  chief  ingredients,  and  an  erring 
woman  as  the  heroine.  All  the  emotional  female 
journalists — the  Sob  Squad  as  they  are  called— 
were  put  to  work  on  the  story.  Their  fictive 
tears  drooled  incessantly  through  the  evening  and 
morning  editions;  the  vast  army  of  people  who 
read  only  the  newspapers,  and  read  these  until 
they  can  see  only  yellow,  were  thoroughly  satu 
rated.  What  jury  picked  from  such  a  public  could 
do  otherwise  than  this  jury  did?  The  District 
Attorney  never  had  a  chance,  and  as  he  felt  lonely 
and  neglected  during  the  public  congratulations 
on  his  failure  to  convict,  I  don't  blame  him  for  his 
words  of  sympathy.  A  verdict  is  a  verdict,  and 
even  District  Attorneys  cannot  afford  to  be  in 
different  to  Trial  by  Newspaper. 
[28] 


OUR  "  BRAND  OF  CAIN  ' 

Singularly  enough,  about  the  time  this  woman 
was  acquitted  of  murdering  her  children  and  was 
sent  forth  to  freedom  with  gracious  and  honouring 
words  from  the  press,  another  woman,  widely 
known  for  her  ability  and  courage,  was  sent  to 
prison  for  the  crime  of  advocating  birth-control. 
Such  is  thy  consistency,  O  Manhattan  1 


OUR    "  BRAND    OF    CAIN  " 


RIMINAL  LAW,  as  exhibited  in  the  New 
York  courts,  seems  mostly  a  noisy,  foolish, 
futile  farce,  with  wrangling,  jawing  lawyers  who 
have  taken  their  wit  from  the  vaudeville,  their 
manners  from  the  Tenderloin,  and  whose  learning 
or  courtesy  is  never  ostentatiously  in  evidence. 
These  strenuous  persons  play  "  rough-house " 
with  each  other  and,  as  far  as  they  dare,  with 
the  court,  for  the  amusement  of  the  spectators 
and  the  profit  of  the  newspapers,  which  report 
the  salient  vulgarities  of  their  wordy  warfare. 

The  object  of  the  able  counsel  on  each  side  is 
by  any  and  all  hazards  to  keep  out  of  evidence  the 
least  hint  of  truth  that  would  injure  their  case. 

Every  one,  not  a  fool,  present  in  the  court,  is 

[29] 


MANNAHATTA 

fully  aware  that  the  Truth  is  near  and  cries  out 
for  a  hearing.  But  the  lawyers  nearly  always 
muzzle  it  in  time,  or  if  it  break  away  from  them 
and  run  shrieking  to  the  learned  judge,  he  is  sure 
to  apply  the  garrotte.  ~No  doubt  this  is  all  strictly 
according  to  the  rules  of  procedure,  but  to  a  plain 
mind,  unversed  in  the  tortuous  ways  of  the  law, 
the  whole  thing  looks  like  an  organized  conspiracy 
to  keep  the  facts  out  of  court  and  make  a  mock 
of  justice. 

Naturally,  Justice  fares  ill  in  her  encounter  with 
these  active,  resourceful  lawyers  who  have  no  use 
for  her  presence — she  is  punched,  mauled,  cross- 
countered,  upper-cut,  dragged  by  the  hair  and 
subjected  to  all  manner  of  abuse,  while  the  learned 
judge  gropes  among  his  authorities. 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  Justice  should  be 
defeated  in  such  a  place  and  under  such  condi 
tions — the  wonder  is  that  she  ever  gets  a  show 
for  her  life,  as  she  does  now  and  then,  when 
nobody  is  looking  on  or  particularly  inter 
ested.  .  .  . 

In  England  it  seldom  takes  longer  than  a  week 
to  try  a  murderer.  In  New  York  it  takes  all  the 
way  from  one  to  three  years,  according  to  the 
[30] 


OUR    '  BRAND  OF  CAIN  ' 

means  of  the  accused  and  the  ability  of  the  law 
yers.  Murderers  without  friends  or  money  are 
shuffled  off  with  less  ceremony,  but  even  in  such 
cases  there  is  often  delay  unknown  to  the  English 
courts. 

Murder  trials  in  England  are  conducted  with 
stern  impressiveness.  There  is  no  sensationalism, 
in  the  American  style.  The  accused,  whatever  his 
or  her  station,  is  treated  with  the  impartial  rigour 
meted  out  to  all  under  the  hand  of  the  law.  He 
or  she  can  not  have  other  meals  than  the  prison 
fare.  He  or  she  is  not  allowed  to  receive  flowers 
either  from  friends  or  the  morbidly  inclined.  The 
hundred  and  one  circumstances  which  in  this  coun 
try  serve  to  heroize  the  shedder  of  blood  and  for 
the  time  being  to  solicit  the  fearful  admiration  of 
a  large  section  of  the  public,  are  totally  wanting 
in  the  conduct  of  an  English  trial.  Most  impor 
tant  of  all,  the  newspapers  do  not  "  spread  "  upon 
it,  elaborating  every  morbid  detail,  working  the 
prurient  or  sexual  interest  to  the  farthest  limit, 
making  a  cult  of  homicide  to  serve  their  own  sen 
sational  ends.  That  is  the  method  of  our  Yellow 
Press  which,  as  has  been  alleged  of  the  New 
York  police  at  their  worst,  creates  more  crime  than 

[31] 


MANNAHATTA 

it  detects  or  reports.  By  comparison,  the  English 
newspapers  are  deadly  dull  in  their  treatment  of 
murder  trials — no  "  scare  headings  "  six  inches 
deep  in  lurid  type,  no  pictures,  snap-shots  from 
every  possible  angle;  no  stories  in  the  advanced 
journalistic  style,  one  part  fact  to  three  parts  fake; 
no  dramatization  of  dirt — nothing  of  all  that  inde 
cent  exhibit  which  debauches  the  public  of  New 
York  and  helps  to  make  a  travesty  of  justice. 

Is  this  generally  the  reason  that  human  life  is 
far  safer  from  crimes  of  violence  in  London  than 
in  New  York? — that  fewer  murders  are  com 
mitted  in  all  England  during  a  year  than  in  the 
city  of  Chicago  in  the  same  space  of  time? — 
waiving  entirely  the  blood-drenched  statistics  of 
the  Southwest,  with  the  auto-da-fes  of  the 
lynching  belt? 

Not  long  ago  the  English  press  were  printing 
homilies  on  the  "  brand  of  Cain  in  the  great 
Republic."  Can  we  deny  the  brand?  and  how 
comes  the  smirch,  if  not  by  the  corruption  and 
degradation  of  the  law? 

I  am  not  an  upholder  of  capital  punishment. 
I  believe  that  the  state  should  not  take  human 
life;  that  neither  the  state  nor  the  individual  has 
[32] 


OUR  "  BRAND  OF  CAIN  ' 

the  right  to  slay.  But  the  first  duty  of  the  state 
is  to  preserve  its  members.  England  does  this 
better  than  our  own  country,  and  she  has  far  less 
blood  on  her  hands.  If  she  were  to  abolish  the 
death  penalty  to-morrow,  her  hands  would  be 
cleansed  of  blood,  and  life  under  her  laws  would  be 
as  fully  secured  as  now,  since  these  laws  would 
be  carried  out  to  the  letter. 

The  fact  that  in  this  free  country  no  law  carries 
a  guaranty  of  enforcement,  withholds  many  people 
from  demanding  the  abolition  of  the  death  penalty. 
As  things  are  and  as  they  will  long  be,  it  would 
be  a  harder  job  to  shut  up  a  murderer  for  life 
than  to  send  him  to  the  gallows  or  the  electric 
chair.  One  of  our  own  judges  has  said  that  "  the 
American  people  do  not  greatly  object  to  the  shed 
ding  of  blood — except  by  process  of  law!" 

England  goes  on  grimly  killing  her  murderers, 
but  she  does  kill  them,  and  that  keeps  the  crop 
within  bounds.  In  this  country  we  coddle  and 
foster  them  by  every  possible  means — chiefly  by 
defeating  or  corrupting  the  law.  Hence  the  crop 
is  so  large  that  in  some  centres  of  American  cul 
ture,  murderers  crowd  honest  men  into  the  gutter 
—and  no  apology  asked  or  given! 

[33] 


MANNAHATTA 

Perhaps  when  we  get  tired  of  making  over 
much  money  and  planting  our  kind  of  civilization 
in  the  benighted  Orient,  we  may  give  a  little  seri 
ous  attention  to  this  matter. 

Meantime,  Liberty — God  bless  her! — would  be 
fairer  without  that  red  smirch  on  her  throat,  and 
Justice  would  appear  more  seemly  on  her  august 
tribunal  but  for  her  trick  of  stooping  to  the 
vaudeville  lawyers  and  sometimes  even  courting 
the  evil  favour  of  the  Yellow  Press. 

WHEN  DICKENS  first  visited  this  country, 
something  over  sixty  years  ago,  the  feud 
spirit  was  at  its  height  in  the  South,  the  Granger- 
fords  and  the  Shepherdsons  were  busily  potting  or 
carving  one  another  all  over  that  section,  and  the 
duello  was  being  invoked  for  the  settlement  of 
even  minor  points  of  honour.  Of  all  this  blood 
letting  the  great  novelist  recorded  his  impressions 
in  the  "  American  Notes,"  subsequently  published, 
which  raised  a  howl  of  rage  against  him  from  the 
press  of  this  country,  especially  in  the  centres  of 
"  chivalry." 

A  score  of  years  later  Dickens  came  over  again 
and  made  a  highly  profitable  lecture  tour  of  the 
[34] 


OUR  "  BRAND  OF  CAIN  ' 

States.  Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  warmth  of 
his  reception  or  that  he  found  an  abatement  of 
our  pleasant  homicidal  ways,  it  is  certain  that  he 
made  a  handsome  and  almost  candid  apology  for 
"Chuzzlewit"  and  the  "Notes."  The  latter,  it 
may  be  remarked,  is  still  the  better  reading  of 
the  two. 

A  generation  has  passed  since  Dickens's  last 
visit  and,  though  we  have  mended  our  manners 
considerably  in  the  South  and  elsewhere,  it  must 
be  admitted  that,  as  somebody  in  "  Huckleberry 
Finn  "  says,  there  is  still  a  "  right  smart  chance 
of  funerals  "  among  us.  The  feuds  have  all  de 
clined,  largely  owing  to  the  interested  parties 
being  mostly  killed  off;  but  as  a  compensation, 
there  are  far  more  lynchings  than  in  Dickens's 
day.  Also  the  "  unwritten  law  "  tragedy  is  much 
more  common  both  South  and  North.  Indeed, 
with  the  approval  of  a  large  section  of  the  press, 
this  is  now  become  the  National  Specialty. 

Dickens  had  some  very  cutting  things  to  say 
about  the  New  York  press  of  ante-Civil  War  days, 
but  what  would  his  satirical  genius  have  done  with 
the  recently  evolved  and  perfected  Trial  by  News 
paper?  What  would  he  have  thought  of  a  great 

[35] 


MANNAHATTA 

public  melted  to  maudlin  compassion  by  the  arts 
of  a  prostitute,  aided  and  abetted  by  a  shameless 
press?  A  journalist  of  the  highest  mark  himself, 
how  would  he  have  regarded  the  degradation  of 
journalism  by  a  set  of  professional  male  and 
female  panders,  expert  sensationalists,  artists  in 
pruriency,  corrupters  of  youth  and  age?  How 
would  he  have  treated  the  brazen  assurance  of  the 
quacks  calling  themselves  alienists,  who  for  enor 
mous  fees  are  ready  to  give  any  sort  of  testi 
mony  needed  in  order  to  bring  off  a  murderer? 
What  sort  of  rebuke  would  he  have  addressed  to 
the  harpy  lawyers  defending  and  fleecing  their 
client — to  the  stupid  or  complaisant  judges  suf 
fering  the  farce  to  drag  endlessly  on — to  the  shame 
and  horror  and  disgrace  of  it  all? 

Do  you  doubt  that  were  Dickens  living  to-day 
he  would  write  something  on  all  this,  which  would 
instantly  make  waste-paper  of  "  Chuzzlewit "  and 
the  "Notes"? 


[36] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

THE    SHAKESPEARE   TERCENTENARY 

An  Elizabethan  Performance 

DURING  MY  visit  to  town  the  Shakespeare 
Tercentenary  was  in  full  swing,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  celebration  was  a  painfully 
worked-up  affair,  lacking  heart  and  spontaneous 
feeling.  Writers  who  knew  nothing  about  Shake 
speare — according  to  Frank  Harris,  an  excellent 
authority — were  rushing  into  print  with  more  or 
less  valuable  contributions.  Actors,  not  specially 
identified  with  the  Shakespearian  drama,  were  giv 
ing  interviews  in  which  they  protested  their  pas 
sionate  attachment  to  the  Bard  and  their  regret 
for  the  indifference  of  the  public  who  have  turned 
their  back  on  the  classic  tradition.  Modest  per 
sons,  incapable  of  self-advertisement,  were  declar 
ing  that  Shakespeare  was  their  only  reading,  and 
ladies  of  "  Society  "  were  graciously  appearing  in 
masques  and  tableaux  designed  to  honour  the  im 
mortal  Man  of  Avon.  There  was  almost  the  same 
apparent  furore  of  enthusiasm  which  (according 
to  "  Mr.  Dooley  ")  once  moved  the  New  York 

[37] 


MA1STNAHATTA 

public  to  wish  to  put  a  fur  coat  on  the  Goddess 
of  Liberty  in  the  bay  and  call  her  Kipling.  Had 
it  been  proposed  to  metamorphose  the  Statue  into 
a  likeness  to  the  Chandos  or  Droeshout  portrait, 
the  public  would,  I  am  sure,  have  been  absolutely 
delighted.  But  even  at  that  it  wouldn't  have 
proved  much  for  New  York's  love  and  under 
standing  of  Shakespeare. 

I  went  to  the  Century  Theatre  to  see  the 
"  Tempest,"  for  which  production  was  chiefly 
responsible  Mr.  John  Corbin  (who  insisted  upon 
spelling  the  Bard's  name  as  Shakspere) .  It  was 
notable  for  an  attempt  to  reproduce  the  stage  and 
dramatic  accessories  of  Shakespeare's  time,  and  the 
full  text  of  the  play  was  used  without,  so  far  as  I 
could  judge,  any  material  omission  or  expurgation. 
The  experiment  was  interesting  and  even  praise 
worthy,  but  I  doubt  if  it  would  "  go  "  under  less 
favouring  circumstances  or  without  a  special  audi 
ence.  In  spite  of  the  painstaking  character  of  the 
production  and  the  average  excellence  of  the  cast, 
there  were  leaden  interludes  which  even  the  fre 
quent  flashes  of  golden  poetry  did  not  serve  to 
relieve.  Prospero,  wonderful  as  he  is  in  the 
library,  was  at  times  dreadfully  prolix  and  boring, 
[38] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

while  no  small  part  of  his  magic  business  seemed 
laughably  puerile.  This  may  have  been  the  fault 
of  the  actor,  who  certainly  failed  to  realize  the 
mystical  role  of  Prospero,  and  whose  manner  of 
reading  the  lines  stripped  them  of  all  poetry;  but 
I  doubt  if  any  mime,  however  gifted,  could  have 
made  the  part  entirely  acceptable.  Time's  rasure 
has  told  strongly  against  the  "  Tempest "  as  an 
acting  play,  though  it  will  always  be  read  with 
pleasure  for  the  poetry  which  only  Shakespeare 
could  have  written.  The  "  rightful  Duke  of 
Milan  "  cannot,  I  think,  be  otherwise  than  wrong 
fully  put  on  the  boards,  and  with  a  complaisance 
from  the  auditors  which  may  rarely  be  counted 
upon.  Then  it  is  never  to  be  forgotten  that  the 
language  of  Shakespeare  is  not  our  language— 
more's  the  pity;  and  so  it  does  not  "carry"  in 
the  theatre,  where  quick  apprehension  is  the  chief 
desideratum.  It  was  palpable  at  this  performance 
that  a  great  many  of  the  lines  were  lost  upon  the 
audience.  Even  Prosperous  wonderful  speech 
beginning— 

Our  revels  now  are  ended,  these  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,— 

[39] 


MANNAHATTA 

passed,  as  the  actors  say,  "  without  a  hand." 
Also  the  strained  look  on  many  faces  betokened 
imperfect  understanding;  and  I  felt  that 
the  Cohan  drama  was  nowise  threatened  in  its 
popularity. 

Again,  it  was  demonstrated  that  the  present- 
day  public  cannot  abide  Shakespeare  (same  man 
as  Mr.  Corbin's  friend  Sliakspere]  without  expur 
gation.  Honest  William's  manner  of  calling  a 
spade  a  spade,  without  euphemism,  will  not  go 
down  with  us.  It  is  not  that  we  are  more  moral, 
perhaps,  than  the  Elizabethans;  but,  of  a  truth,  we 
are  more  fastidious,  and  we  shudder  at  words  with 
the  muck  of  nature  attached  to  them.  In  this  play 
the  bawdy  oaths  of  the  seamen  and  the  coarse 
fooleries  of  Stephano  and  Trinculo  were  very 
palpably  a  severe  trial  to  the  audience,  and  even 
the  splendid  work  of  Walter  Hampden  fell  short 
of  making  Caliban  a  fit  person  to  introduce  to  the 
Young  Girl.  Rather  did  this  crude  piece  of 
nature,  half  faun,  half  beast,  keep  the  audience 
in  a  constant  moral  trepidation.  Indeed,  when 
the  unlovely  son  of  Sycorax  voiced  his  regret  at 
having  failed  to  ravish  Miranda,  and  deplored  his 
lost  hope  of  peopling  the  isle  with  Calibans,  there 
[40] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

was  a  tensity  of  mute  protest  among  the  audience 
which  it  was  quite  impossible  to  mistake. 

And  mind  you,  the  audience  as  a  whole  was  such 
an  one  as  could  not  readily  be  assembled  for  a 
Shakespearian  play;  cultured,  appreciative  and 
disposed  to  condone  the  Bard's  occasional  gross- 
ness  for  the  sake  of  his  magical  poetry. 

And  yet,  when  all  is  said,  I  am  not  sure  but 
that  Ariel  (exquisitely  realized  by  Fania  Marinoff) 
carried  away  all  faults  of  the  production.  Cer 
tainly  she  at  times  persuaded  us  of  the  true 
wizardry  of  Prospero,  especially  when  that  long- 
tongued  old  person  was  absent  from  the  scene. 
Delicate  Ariel!  thou  wert  the  very  thought  of 
Shakespeare,  his  most  darling  creation,  his  familiar 
spirit.  As  we  listened  to  thy  prattling  lyric  speech, 
so  strangely  mingled  of  earth  and  faeryland,  our 
souls  were  veritably  touched  by  the  spell  of  that 
wondrous  genius  who  "  was  not  for  a  day  but  for 
all  time"! 

So  you  see,  I  end  on  a  note  of  praise.  And, 
indeed,  I  am  very  glad  that  I  saw  this  really, 
truly  Elizabethan  representation  of  "  The  Tem 
pest  "  by  William  Shakespeare  (or  Shakspere), 
for  which  I  make  my  best  compliments  to  Mr. 

[41] 


MANNAHATTA 

John  Corbin,  the  talented  producer.  The  chance 
was  one,  I  am  convinced,  that  will  not  soon  occur 
again. 

Going  back  to  my  hotel  after  the  play,  Calibans 
speech  to  Trinculo — "  Thou  art  a  god  and  bearest 
celestial  liquor  "  —kept  ringing  in  my  head.  And 
I  reflected  how  the  Bard  always  gives  his  deepest 
word  to  the  fool  in  his  plays ;  not,  we  may  be  sure, 
without  a  profound  or  even  divine  significance. 
For  Shakespeare  himself  was  a  god  and  bore  a 
liquor  celestial;  that  he  sometimes  tipsified  himself 
with  it,  like  Stephano,  is  true  enough  and  only 
goes  to  prove  that  even  the  gods  have  their 
penalties. 

Sir  Herbert  Tree's  "  Shylock  " 

IHIS  IS  the  Jew 

That  Shakespeare  drew," 

rhymed  Pope  after  seeing  Quin  in  the  character 
of  Shylock.  What  a  famous  character  it  is,  en 
twined  with  what  memories  of  histrionic  renown; 
the  glory  of  the  English  stage,  from  Betterton  to 
Kean!  And  what  a  play,  exhibiting  the  great 
[42] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

Poet's  mastery  of  passion,  with  a  weaving  through 
out  of  golden  fancy!  Is't  not  in  itself  an  estate 
rich  as  a  kingly  reversion,  and  would  not  we,  like 
the  lady  Olivia,  rather  lose  half  our  dowry  than  see 
mischance  come  to  it?  .  .  . 

This  is  all  very  well,  but  certain  Americanized 
Hebrews  have  no  sort  of  use  for  the  Jew  that 
Shakespeare  drew,  declaring  the  same  to  be  a  libel 
on  their  kind.  Much  of  the  poetry  thereof  is  as 
hateful  to  them  as  was  the  screaming  of  the  wry- 
necked  fife  to  Shylock  himself,  though  so  pleasing 
to  young  Jessica.  They  will  not  stand  for  the  Jew 
of  Venice,  and  they  have  made  protest  against  the 
study  of  the  play  in  the  public  schools  of  Wash 
ington. 

That  there  is  a  strong  touch  of  exaggeration  in 
Shylock  need  not  be  disputed.  Shakespeare  wrote 
at  a  time  when  mediaeval  notions  about  the  Jews 
still  prevailed  universally.  Shylock's  demand  for 
the  literal  satisfaction  of  his  bond — the  flesh  from 
over  Antonio's  heart — is  doubtless  in  strict  keeping 
with  the  popular  sixteenth  or  seventeenth  century 
conception  of  the  Jew.  People  in  the  England 
of  Shakespeare's  time  had  no  more  love  for  the 
Chosen  Race,  and  as  little  regard  for  their  feel- 

[43] 


MANNAHATTA 

ings,  as  present-day  Russians  who  still  accuse  them 
of  ritual  murder  and  other  abominations. 

It  is  regrettable,  of  course,  that  Shakespeare 
had  such  narrow  views  and  brutal  prejudices,  but 
it  need  not  be  pointed  out  to  our  Jewish  friends 
that  literature  was  greatly  the  gainer  thereby.  A 
milder  conception  of  STiylock  would  have  given  us 
a  weaker  play,  the  strength  of  the  piece  depending 
upon  the  exaggerated  ferocity  of  the  Jew.  But 
what  images  this  over-imagined  truculence  and 
malignity  of  Shylock  lent  to  his  creator!  What 
tragic  truth  in  this  personification  of  a  hated  and 
proscribed  race  that  yet  was  feared  as  well  as 
hated,  and  knew  how  on  occasion  to  collect  its 
revenge!  Shi/lock  seems  as  great  as  Holy  Writ 
(which  is  also  charged  with  certain  defects  and 
exaggerations).  The  creation  of  this  character 
remains  one  of  the  lofty  monuments  of  human 
genius.  Those  misguided  persons  who  condemn 
it  or  insult  at  it  put  themselves  in  a  hopelessly 
absurd  position,  like  that  of  an  ant,  say,  defecating 
against  one  of  the  pyramids! 

For  great  literature  is  above  all  racial  grudges 
and  susceptibilities,  and  anything  savouring  of  an 
attack  upon  it,  in  the  interest  of  a  clan  or  a 
[44] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

prejudice,  challenges  resentment  on  every  hand. 
I  remember  that  Heine,  himself  a  Jew,  was  a 
great  admirer  of  this  play  and  made  a  wonderful 
study  of  it.  He  very  evidently  did  not  regard 
Shylock  as  a  libel  on  his  ancient  race,  conceived 
in  mere  sordid  Jew-hatred,  but  rather  esteemed 
him  as  one  of  the  great  achievements  of  Shake 
speare.  I  recommend  those  Washington  Hebrew- 
Americans  to  read  Heine's  remarks  on  Shylock 
in  his  book  entitled  "  The  Women  of  Shake 
speare."  It  may  induce  them  to  withdraw  from 
their  present  position,  which  is  apt  to  bring  odium 
upon  the  Jewish  people. 

By  the  way,  why  don't  these  ultra-sensitive  Jews 
protest  Fagin  in  Dickens's  "Oliver  Twist"?  It 
seems  to  me  they  might  do  so  with  much  stronger 
reason.  Yet  we  have  just  seen,  under  Jewish  man 
agement,  too,  a  great  revival  of  the  play  made 
from  Dickens' s  story,  in  which  the  terrible  Fagin 
was  the  chief  character.  Compared  to  Dickens's 
red  Jew  steeped  in  all  manner  of  crime,  Shake- 
peare's  Shylock  is  fit  company  for  the  Rothschilds 
and  the  Zionists. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  Dickens  sketched 
his  Riah,  the  benevolent  Jew  in  "  Our  Mutual 

[45] 


MANNAHATTA 

Friend,"  as  a  sort  of  reparation  and  amende  for 
Fagin.  The  character  is  one  of  his  weakest,  and 
may  serve  as  a  warning  against  the  literary 
apology.  .  .  . 

Having  seen  Mr.  Corbin's  Shakspere,  I  decided 
I  would  plunge  on  the  Tercentenary  and  take  in 
Sir  Herbert  Tree's  Shakespeare.  This  worshipful 
Knight  of  the  drama  was  formerly  known  as 
Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree,  but  in  the  process  of 
ennoblement  he  dropped  the  middle  name,  or  per 
haps  sunk  it  in  the  Atlantic  on  his  voyage  to  us. 
The  matter  is  not  important  anyway,  though  I 
have  no  doubt  that  Sir  Herbert's  title  had  much 
to  do  with  filling  his  houses.  There  be  many  New 
Yorkers  who  would  rather  see  a  real  live  British 
Knight  than  Shakespeare  himself  in  the  flesh,  were 
the  alternative  possible.  This  was  acutely  under 
stood  and  fully  taken  advantage  of  by  the  man 
agement. 

I  saw  this  titled  and  eminent  actor  in  only  one 
play,  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  and  it  may  not 
be  fair  to  judge  him  from  a  single  performance. 
I  can  at  least  begin  by  complimenting  him: — he 
is  a  master  of  stage-craft,  an  excellent  producer. 
[46] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

Thank  goodness,  he  did  not  attempt  to  show  us 
the  "  Merchant  "  as  it  was  presented  in  Shake 
speare's  time,  but  gave  it  with  all  the  scenic  and 
mechanical  accessories  of  the  modern  stage.  I  was 
very  glad  thereat,  for  to  be  quite  frank,  I  can 
see  that  a  steady  course  of  imitation  Globe  Theatre 
might  pall  on  the  most  enthusiastic  Shakespearian. 

So  we  had  a  superb,  realistic  setting  for  this 
famous  play,  which  I  think  helped  out  not  a  little, 
even  with  Shakespeare  as  the  author.  There  was 
the  very  Rialto  itself  (what  scene  more  cele 
brated?)  where  Shylock  was  wont  to  be  rated  for 
his  usances  by  Antonio,  and  where  he  whispered  to 
Tubal  his  dream  of  revenge.  There  were  the  flash 
ing  waterways  of  Venice,  with  real  gondolas  glid 
ing  through  them,  bearing  happy  lovers  along  the 
moonlight-silvered  paths.  Here  was  the  Ghetto, 
and  there  Shylock's  "  sober  house,"  just  as  they 
must  have  been  in  that  reality  which  Shakespeare 
transferred  to  immortal  romance.  And  for  a 
proof,  see  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  Leah,  looking 
from  her  window  upon  the  carnival  fooleries, 
despite  her  father's  injunction;  the  while  she  is 
intent  for  the  signal  of  young  Lorenzo. 

Yes,  I  know  it  must  all  have  happened  as 

[47] 


MANNAHATTA 

Shakespeare  tells  it : — Jessica  at  her  window,  plot 
ting  to  betray  her  father,  convinces  me;  and  her 
treachery,  though  it  seem  to  be  but  lightly 
touched,  is  the  deepest  note  in  the  play. 

And  here  I  will  hazard  an  observation  that  may 
challenge  protest.  I  believe  that  even  good  Chris 
tians  have  scant  sympathy  with  the  false  daughter 
of  Shylock,  whose  light-hearted  treason  is  so 
strongly  contrasted  with  her  father's  iron  character 
and  inflexible  purpose.  Shakespeare  has  endowed 
the  Jew  with  so  much  genius  that,  in  spite  of  preju 
dice  that  is  of  our  very  blood,  he  wins  a  large 
measure  of  our  sympathy.  We  almost  wish  that 
Jessica  were  not  of  his  house  (one  cannot  imagine 
a  Jew  looking  at  her  without  a  clutching  of  the 
throat).  Belmont  bridals  are  very  well,  but  this 
Jew  has  suffered  much  and  he  interests  us  more 
than  a  parcel  of  fortune-hunters  and  bad  debtors. 
Nay,  we  are  not  so  sure  that  this  honest  Antonio 
'(who  will  take  a  man's  money  yet  spit  upon  him!) 
is  either  hero  or  martyr,  with  his  bosom  theatri 
cally  bared  to  give  Shylock  his  pound  of  flesh. 
The  crushing  award  of  Portia  (a  poor  enough 
quibble,  by  the  way),  the  taunts  of  the  Venetians 
baiting  the  Jew  in  his  wild  grief  and  rage — a 
[48] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

veritable  piece  of  the  ancient  Israel — leave  us 
strangely  cold.  We  are  all-absorbed  in  that  tragic 
figure,  and  we  recognize  that  Shylock  is  the  true 
hero  of  the  scene. 

Did  Shakespeare  intend  it  to  be  so?  Not  if  we 
must  accept  the  traditional  interpretation  of  his 
play,  which  faithfully  reflects  the  crude  prejudices 
of  his  time.  I  think  Shakespeare,  with  his  won 
drous  illusive  genius,  made  this  play  of  seeming 
purpose  to  please  the  mob,  while  he  entrusted  the 
secret  of  his  real  feelings  to  Shylock  who,  though 
defeated,  still  remains  the  one  great  figure  in  the 
piece.  This  is,  at  any  rate,  the  paradox  of  the 
"  Merchant  of  Venice,"  and  I  think  the  Jews  are 
very  foolish  who  protest  this  play,  which  is  actually 
a  superb  compliment  to  the  Chosen  People.  But 
I  don't  blame  any  of  them  for  wanting  to  wring 
the  neck  of  that  slippery  little  Jessica. 

Mr.  Tree's  acting  was  strong  and  intelligent, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  to  have  few  moments  of  real 
greatness.  His  Shylock  was  less  commanding  in 
his  rage  and  ruthless  purpose  than  pathetic  in 
his  weakness  and  defeat.  No  doubt,  this  falling 
off  was  mainly  due  to  a  voice  whose  lack  of  reso 
nance  and  colour  terribly  handicaps  this  actor  for 

[49] 


MANNAHATTA 

the  great  roles  of  Shakespeare.  But,  like  the  late 
Henry  Irving,  he  indemnifies  us  with  his  skill  as 
a  producer  and  his  mastery  of  stage-craft.  His 
visit  should  have  a  good  effect  on  theatrical  con 
ditions  in  this  country,  but  I  doubt  if  it  will  do 
much  to  revive  the  Shakespearian  drama.  The 
raw  truth  is  that  listening  to  the  same  seems  too 
much  like  work  to  the  "  tired  business  man,"  and, 
as  I  have  hinted  above,  the  language  is  often 
obscure  or  positively  unintelligible  to  a  great 
majority  of  the  public.  Besides,  each  generation 
loves  to  see  itself  mirrored  on  the  stage,  and  the 
classic  never  has  a  chance  with  the  contemporary, 
whatever  the  disparity  of  merit.  So  it  need  not 
hurt  us  overmuch  to  admit  that  New  York  prefers 
"  Potash  and  Perlmutter  "  or  the  Ziegfeld  "  Fol 
lies  "  to  the  best  acted  play  of  Shakespeare.  After 
all,  I  am  not  sure  that  the  public  is  greatly  at 
fault.  It  will  do  no  good  to  insist  upon  the  tyr 
anny  of  the  classics.  In  time  Shakespeare  must 
pass  from  the  stage  where  he  has  lorded  it  so  long : 
can  we  pretend  that  he  is  not  already  all  but  gone 
in  this  country?  Do  you  suppose  that  we  shall 
still  be  presenting  his  plays  when  the  fourth  Cen 
tenary  comes  round?  Do  you  fancy  that,  with 
[50] 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

the  constant  change  and  corruption  of  language, 
New  York  will  understand  him  any  better  in  the 
year  Two  thousand  and  sixteen?  Nay,  I  conclude 
in  the  words  of  a  modest  but  estimable  author :  * 
1  Though  it  be  certainly  true  that  Shakespeare 
was  not  for  a  day  but  for  all  time,  yet  is  change 
written  upon  all  things,  and  the  stage  will  one  day 
be  closed  to  the  mightiest  of  its  monarchs.  Never, 
we  may  be  sure,  the  Book  in  which  he  rules  the 
hearts  and  the  imaginations  of  men.5' 

A  Shakespearian  Exhibit 

A  LSO  I  gave  myself  the  pleasure  of  looking 
-*•  •*•  over  the  Exhibition  of  Shakespeariana  at 
the  New  York  Public  Library  which,  by  the  way, 
is  the  finest  classic  structure  in  the  City: — a  splen 
did  testimony  to  the  truth  that  the  world  has  not 
been  able  to  advance  a  step  beyond  "  the  beauty 
that  was  Greece." 

Here  were  shown  early  prints  of  Shakespeare's 
plays  and  poems,  the  famous  First  Folio  (valued 
at  thousands  of  dollars)  spurious  works  attributed 
to  him,  books  that  he  had  read  and  used  as 

*See  "At  the  Sign  of  the  Van,"  page  272. 

[51] 


MANNAHATTA 

"  sources,"  books  containing  allusions  to  him,  etc., 
etc.  Of  the  last  mentioned,  none  interested  me  so 
much  as  Greene's  "  Groatsworth  of  Wit,"  pub 
lished  in  1592,  a  stupid  thing  which  has  been  im 
mortalized  by  its  attack  upon  Shakespeare.  He 
was  only  twenty-eight  when  the  envious  Greene 
likened  him  to  "  an  upstart  Crow  beautified  with 
our  feathers  ...  in  his  own  conceit  the  only 
Shake-scene  in  the  countrie."  This  was  maybe  the 
very  book,  the  identical  page  which  exposed  the 
taunt  to  Shakespeare's  eye,  and  no  doubt  caused 
that  eye  to  flash  and  the  poet's  cheek  to  pale. 
Glory  and  Envy  are  here  strangely  met  again 

after  the  lapse  of  three  centuries. 

I  was  most  interested  in  the  books  printed  dur 
ing  Shakespeare's  lifetime,  texts  of  his  Plays  and 
Poems  which  he  himself  saw  and  handled.  How 
carelessly  they  were  thrown  upon  the  world,  those 
offspring  of  his  mighty  genius!  His  Poems  were 
thought  more  of  than  his  Plays,  it  is  said,  and 
his  concern  for  the  former  proves  that  he  himself 
shared  this  preference.  Among  those  who  missed 
the  greatness  of  William  Shakespeare  was  the  man 
himself!  This  was,  no  doubt,  because  of  his  pre 
ternatural  facility.  He  seems  to  have  produced 
T521 


SHAKESPEARE  TERCENTENARY 

his  wonderful  works  without  agony  or  exhaustion; 
and  his  fellow-players  testify  that  they  received 
his  papers  without  a  blot  in  them. 

It  is  hard  enough  to  believe,  for  Shakespeare's 
supreme  greatness  is  in  his  passion,  and  the  chil 
dren  of  passion  should  bear  the  marks  of  their 
paternity.  However  this  may  be,  I  will  remark 
that  the  total  effect  of  this  exhibit  was  to  raise 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  identity  of  the  Man 
and  the  Poet.  I  was  never  a  Baconian,  in  faith, 
sweet  William  having  possessed  me  from  my 
fifteenth  year;  but  the  perverse  folly  of  those 
who  would  rob  the  great  Poet  of  his  due,  in  the 
presence  of  these  testimonies,  struck  me  as  a  thing 
outrageous  beyond  parallel.  As  I  say,  I  myself 
never  doubted  Shakespeare,  for  I  learned  him 
young  when  the  heart  has  more  wisdom  than  the 
head.  Yes,  I  came  under  that  mighty  spell  in 
boyhood,  and  I  have  always  regarded  it  as  the  best 
part  of  my  education  and  the  most  fruitful  adven 
ture  of  my  mental  life. 

The  portraits  of  the  Poet  shown  in  this  collec 
tion  call  for  a  special  word.  One  would  like  to 
believe  that  the  so-called  Griffin  Portrait  of  Shake 
speare  is  an  authentic  likeness.  Although  but  re- 

[53] 


MANNAHATTA 

cently  discovered,  or  at  least  made  public,  it  is  said 
to  have  been  for  two  hundred  years  in  the  posses 
sion  of  the  Griffin  family  in  Northamptonshire.  It 
is  further  alleged  that  the  Bard's  paternal  great- 
grandmother  was  a  Griffin.  I  do  not  know 
whether  the  experts  will  allow  this  claim,  and  I 
must  say  the  legend  strikes  me  as  more  romantic 
than  probable.  The  point,  as  I  have  said,  is  one 
for  the  antiquarians  to  decide.  But  I  would  be 
glad  to  accept  this  Portrait  as  the  true  present 
ment  of  Shakespeare.  It  seems  to  be  an  idealized 
composite  of  the  Chandos  and  Droeshout  pictures, 
painted  by  an  artist  of  genius.  It  is  beautiful, 
fresh,  living — alas,  too  much  so  to  compel  the 
fullest  faith.  There  is  a  certain  quite  indescrib 
able  royal  dignity  in  the  eyes — one  feels  that 
Shakespeare  must  have  looked  so.  Those  eyes 
seemed  to  follow  me  with  their  proud  yet  gracious 
smile;  and  when  at  length  I  withdrew  from  the 
room  I  did  not  turn  my  back  upon  them. 

Does  not  one  so  retire  from  the  presence  of  a 
King? 


[54] 


MANNAHATTA  II 


MANNAHATTA  II 

SPAGHETTI 

Dis  earns  ipsis,  quippe  ter  et  quater 
Anno  revisens  aequor  Atlanticum 
Impune;  me  pascunt  olivae, 
Me  cichorea  levesque  malvae. 

— Horace,  Lib.  1-31. 


Dear  to  the  very  gods  themselves 

(Since  never  vainly  do  I  troth  'em)" 
And  three  or  four  times  o3  the  year 

Levanting  down  to  Gotham; 
Me  the  tart  olive  nourisheih, 

With  other  such  confetti, 
And  one  thing  Flaccus  quite  forgot, 

Italians  pride — spaghetti! 

1   CONFESS  to  a  great  partiality  for  it. 
The  place  where  you  get  it  right,  at  least 
to  my  taste,  is  a  modest  Italian  table  d'hote  in 
Twenty-seventh  Street,  just  off  Broadway.    Here 
it  is  served  as  the  piece  de  resistance  of  a  dinner 

[57] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

that  costs  you  one  dollar,  plus  a  two-bit  piece. 
Bigger  and  more  showy  places  there  be  a-plenty, 
where  you  pay  a  fancier  price  and  the  vermicular 
cereal  is  dished  up  with  more  frills  and  fussiness; 
but  the  essential  spaghetti, — the  thing  in  itself,  to 
speak  philosophically, — will  not  be  so  good.  The 
difference  is  one  of  savouriness  and  relish;  a  cook's 
secret  which  holds  many  faithful  to  the  little 
bodega  in  Twenty-seventh  Street. 

Here,  too,  the  soup  (which  seems  to  contain  all 
the  Horatian  vegetables,  and  a  few  beside  for  good 
measure)  is  of  an  extraordinary  virtue;  while  as 
for  drink,  you  may  command  a  sound  Brolio  or 
Antinori.  (I  do  not  mention  Italian  sweet  wines, 
for  I  never  could  abide  them.)  Either  of  the 
wines  named,  moderately  dry  and  not  overheating, 
makes  an  excellent  table  beverage  or  vin  ordinaire. 
My  own  practice,  which  has  classical  warrant,  is 
to  dilute  the  wine  about  one-half,  and  taken  this 
way  I  have  never  known  any  bad  effects  to  result 
from  it.  The  Italians,  by  the  way,  are  brought 
up  in  the  daily  use  of  their  native  wines,  and  as 
every  one  knows,  they  are  an  exceptionally  temper 
ate  people.  In  this  country,  however,  they  drink 
more  beer  than  wine.  But  though  we  may  not 
[58] 


SPAGHETTI 

agree  as  to  all  this,  the  reader  must  grant  me  that 
without  wine  there  is  no  Italian  dinner.  One 
might  as  well  think  to  leave  out  the  spaghetti! 

In  a  word,  you  can  dine  excellently  for  a  couple 
of  dollars,  and  if  you  are  content  with  beer  or 
native  vintages,  the  damage  will  be  less.  The 
point  is  worth  noting  in  view  of  the  exaggerated 
stuff  put  forth  by  newspaper  writers  who  are  bet 
ter  acquainted  with  Childs's  than  with  Sherry's  or 
Delmonico's.  There  is,  of  course,  no  end  of  dining 
places  where  the  prices  are  made  especially  for 
snobs  and  free  spenders,  places  that  flatter  the 
fool's  purse  as  well  as  his  vanity;  but  such  are  not 
our  present  concern. 

During  my  fat  years  in  and  about  Gotham  (oh 
yes,  I  had  a  few,  reader)  I  sometimes  stole  a  peep 
into  the  Book  of  the  great  Brillat-Savarin  and 
learned  a  little  of  the  hedonistic  science  of  eating. 
'Tis  a  sin  I  readily  pardon  myself  since  it  had 
the  salutary  effect  of  confirming  my  devotion  to 
the  simple  life,  to  which  I  always  returned  with  the 
heartier  relish  after  a  whirl  with  the  Gadarenes. 
JVell,  I  have  often  fared  more  sumptuously  but 
never  more  wholesomely  and  en  joy  ably  than  at 
the  little  caupona  mentioned  above,  where  I  like 

[59] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

to  think  the  soup  has  a  distinct  Horatian  flavour, 
and  the  wine,  one  can  easily  make  believe,  is  of 
the  true  Falernian  brand.  Anyhow,  if  these  be 
vanities  and  illusions,  they  are  not  at  least  charged 
to  you  in  the  bill;  they  cost  nothing  extra,  and 
they  add  unspeakably  to  the  pleasures  of  associa 
tion.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  great  Brillat-Savarin 
has  mentioned  it,  but  in  the  business  of  dining  well 
the  mind  and  the  imagination  must  first  be  ap 
pealed  to,  and  in  truth  the  stomach  plays  only  a 
subsidiary  part: — when  it  gets  control  it  eats  the 
man! 

Nowadays,  whatever  occasion  may  call  me  to 
New  York,  I  am  pretty  apt  to  reckon  upon  treat 
ing  myself  to  a  real  Italian  dinner,  with  the  gen 
uine  spaghetti  made  in  Italy.  Oh,  of  course,  I 
insist  upon  that! 

Now,  what  do  you  think?  I  had  scribbled  thus 
far,  and  my  mouth  was  deliciously  watering  at  the 
prospect  of  spaghetti,  when  a  disquieting  rumour 
reached  me.  It  seems  that,  owing  to  the  War— 
every  annoyance  nowadays  is  charged  to  the 
War — this  famous  Italian  spaghetti,  like  the 
beer  of  Munich,  is  no  longer  procurable  in  this 
country,  and  what  we  get,  and  have  had  for  some 
[60] 


NEWYORKITIS 

time  past,  actually  comes  from  Russia.  Can  this 
be  true?  The  idea  of  Russian  spaghetti  is  not 
inspiring,  to  say  the  least,  but  I  swear  I  could  not 
detect  any  difference  in  fibre  or  flavour,  on  my 
last  visit  to  Town.  •  Another  illusion?  But  I  am 
not  shaken  for  all  that: — I  still  cry,  Viva  spa 
ghetti! 

NEWYORKITIS 

SOME  YEARS  ago  a  man  of  physic  by  the 
name  of  Girdner  made  a  frenzied  bid  for  fame 
by  publishing  the  diagnosis  of  a  disease  which  he 
called  Newyorkitis.  The  thing  had  been  observed 
before  that  and  some  of  the  symptoms  described, 
but  Girdner  was  rightfully  awarded  caveat,  as  he 
was  the  first  to  identify  it  as  a  distinct  malady  and 
give  it  a  name. 

Like  other  great  benefactors  of  humanity, 
Girdner  had  small  reward  for  his  pains,  and 
after  a  three  days'  wonder  he  was  forgotten.  Not 
long  ago,  I  am  told,  he  succumbed  to  Newyorkitis, 
thus  by  a  strange  fatality  falling  prey  to  the 
dread  disease  of  which  he  had  been  the  virtual 
discoverer. 

[61] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

Meanwhile,  the  terrible  plague  (for  it  is  nothing 
less)  continues  to  extend  its  ravages  and  to  add 
to  the  appalling  total  of  its  victims.  No  other 
result  could  indeed  be  looked  for,  seeing  the  lack 
of  intelligent  therapeutics  and  the  constantly 
increasing  population  of  the  Great  City. 

Girdner  is  perhaps  in  his  grave  where,  it  may 
be  hoped,  that  after  life's  fitful  Newyorkitis  he 
sleeps  well.  His  book  sleeps  even  more  soundly, 
and  the  warnings  which  he  voiced  a  short  decade 
ago  are  unheeded  and  forgotten.  I  hate  to  rush 
into  the  breach,  dear  friends,  but  somebody  will 
have  to  lead  the  forlorn  hope.  So  here  goes! 

What,  then,  is  Newyorkitis?  It  is,  as  its  name 
certifies,  a  special  kind  of  disease  to  which  New 
Yorkers  are  liable.  Many  are  its  manifestations, 
and  a  deranged  sense  of  the  relative  importance 
of  things  is  one  of  the  most  familiar  symptoms. 
The  afflicted  person  never  suspects  that  anything 
is  wrong  with  him  and  often  remarks,  apropos  of 
nothing,  that  "  little  old  New  York  has  the  rest 
of  the  Cosmos  beaten  to  a  frazzle,"  whatever  that 
may  mean. 

Girdner  erred,  I  believe,  in  ascribing  Newyork 
itis  largely  to  the  varied  and  infernally  torturing 
[62] 


NEWYORKITIS 

noises  of  the  city.  These  have  their  effect,  no 
doubt,  and  the  nerve-grinding  horror  of  the  sub 
ways,  in  particular,  writes  itself  in  certain  forms 
of  the  malady.  But  if  Girdner  were  living  to-day 
he  would  have  to  admit  that  more  potent  and 
malefic  agents  are  to  be  traced  to  the  Yellow 
Press,  the  mad  chase  of  the  dollar,  and  above  all, 
the  universal  sex-lunacy.  Different  in  kind  as 
are  these  engendering  causes,  they  lead  ultimately 
to  the  same  thing,  and  that  is  Newyorkitis. 

The  Yellow  Journalist  makes  broad  his  phy 
lacteries  and  writes  but  one  word  upon  them— 
Sex!  His  fellow,  the  theatre  manager,  has  noth 
ing  else  on  his  playbills  but  Sex!  And  while 
there  are  many  reasons  for  hunting  the  dollar  in 
New  York,  the  dominant  one  is  Sex! 

Therefore,  I  think  Dr.  Girdner  might  have 
made  a  stronger  point  as  to  the  share  which  the 
epidemic  sex-obsession  has  in  bringing  on  New- 
yorkitis.  As  I  remember,  the  learned  man  does 
not  mention  this  at  all,  a  thing  that  seems  to  me 
inexplicable.  For  to  a  lay  mind  the  devouring 
preoccupation  with  sex,  to  which  the  newspapers 
cater  so  grossly  and  untiringly,  would  seem  to 
be  responsible  for  the  worst  phases  of  the  disease, 

[63] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

such  as  paresis,  erotomania,  hircinitis,  marital  dis 
satisfaction,  divorce,  drunkenness,  etc.  All  these 
and  many  kindred  things  are  the  fruit  of  our 
unashamed  devotion  to  the  great  goddess  Lubricity 
as  certainly  as  the  fig  tree  beareth  in  her  kind. 


OLD  MEN  FOR  LOVE 

IN  NEW  YORK  it  is  the  custom  of  Everyman 
and  his  Best  Girl  or  his  Wife  or  (s'il  vous 
plait)  some  one  that  may  be  nor  wife  nor  maid,  to 
dine  several  times  a  week  at  some  favoured  restau 
rant  or  hotel.  This  gregarious  feeding  is  a  strong 
point  with  the  typical  Gothamite,  and  it  may  go 
far  to  explain  that  virtual  abandonment  of  the 
"  home  idea  "  which  is  a  marked  feature  of  life  in 
the  Metropolis.  Anyhow,  it  solicits  us  as  a  distinct 
symptom  of  Newyorkitis  to  make  a  note  right  here 
on  a  certain  phase  of  the  morals  and  manners  of 
the  Big  Town;  which  we  proceed  to  do  with  our 
customary  circumspection. 

Kipling  has   observed   in   a   well-known   poem 
that- 

Old  men  love  while  young  men  die. 
[64] 


OLD  MEN  FOR  LOVE 

And  he  explains  the  reason  why  in  an  ingen 
ious  fable.  Whether  the  poet  fabled  truly 
or  not, — whether  it  is  because  young  men 
die,  it  is  very  certain  that  old  men  love. 
And  one  is  tempted  to  say  that  they  seem  to 
have  the  preference  in  woman-worshipping 
Gotham. 

So  at  least  you  might  infer  from  even  a  casual 
review  of  the  night  life  of  the  Town.  At  all  the 
swell  cafes  where  the  sexes  meet  for  the  pleasant 
business  of  guzzling  and  gorging,  the  call  is 
obviously  for  oldish  or  elderly  men  and  young 
women.  An  unsophisticated  looker-on  would  sup 
pose  any  but  the  true  relationship  between  all  these 
grey  and  blonde  or  brunette  heads  so  snugly  tete- 
a-tete  under  the  twinkling  lusters,  with  that  before 
them  which  stimulates  appetite  and  enjoyment  in 
persons  of  all  ages.  The  seasoned  New  Yorker 
looks  on  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  seldom 
ascribes  a  paternal  or  avuncular  or  even  a  marital 
relation  to  the  grey-haired  gallant.  Not  if  he 
knows  his  New  York. 

Papas  are  not  so  flatteringly  attentive,  uncles 
not  so  affectionately  devoted,  husbands  not  so 
lover-like  and  languishing.  Oh,  no!  and  persons 

[65] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

of  ill-assorted  ages  in  legal  or  family  bonds  do 
not  have  such  a  good  time  together. 

Then,  you  say,  these  old  men  and  young  women 
are  all—  -?  Pshaw,  let's  not  bother  what  they 
are,  except  that  they  are — having  a  good  time! 
This  is  little  old  New  York  where  people  mind 
their  own  business  or  had  better.  Voilal 

Certainly  these  highly  fed,  well-groomed  old 
sters  seem  to  know  the  game,  and  if  you  watch 
them  a  while  you  will  wonder  less  at  the  strange 
preference  of  their  fair  companions.  Do  not  old 
men  beat  young  men  at  most  games  of  patience 
and  stratagem  and  cunning?  And  is  not  love  pre 
eminently  such  a  game?  Tut,  tut!  these  fair 
young  things  know  quite  well  what  they  are 
about.  They  are  not  so  uncalculating  as  they 
look,  not  by  a  good  half.  In  truth  there  is  a 
shrewd  purpose  behind  their  own  play.  The  old 
lover  is  gentle  and  kind  and  indulgent;  above  all, 
generous.  There  may  be  a  trifle  too  much  gold 
in  his  teeth  and  too  little  hair  on  his  head.  That 
falsetto  crack  in  his  laugh,  too,  jars  on  one,  like 
certain  effects  of  light  on  his  profile  or  the  turkey- 
gobbler  movement  in  his  stringy  neck.  But  he  has 
the  prestige  and  the  experience  of  a  hundred  con- 
[66] 


OLD  MEN  FOR  LOVE 

quests;  and  he  never  hurries  you  with  the  rough 
impetuosity  of  youth ;  and  he's  really  splendid  com 
pany,  though  his  talk  is  a  little  boresome;  and 
though  an  old  fool,  of  course,  he's  not  nearly  so 
exacting  as  a  young  fool  would  be — and,  in  short, 
he  is  IT.  ( Newyorkese  for  comme  il  faut. ) 

You  remark  that  the  young  women  seem  proud 
of  their  elderly  cavaliers  and  carry  themselves 
with  a  more  pronounced  air  of  assurance  than  as 
if  they  were  companioned  by  younger  men.  Yes, 
they  seem  palpably  more  sure  of  themselves — of 
their  charm  and  their  power.  Is  this  perhaps  the 
true  underlying  motive  of  their  preference  for 
lovers  or  "  friends  "  who  might  be  their  fathers- 
even  grandfathers  are  not  out  of  the  reckoning. 
Woman's  vanity  may  well  be  at  the  bottom  of 
this  as  of  other  anomalies.  Age  is  (of  course) 
a  potent  inspirer  of  confidence. 

So  much  for  the  psychology  of  those  who  go 
down  to  fish  and  be  fished  for  in  cafes,  where  the 
Belly-God  and  other  divinities  of  the  flesh  are 
frankly  worshipped.  But  their  affair  is  not  a 
complex  matter — the  problem  really  sounds  pro- 
founder  depths  of  human  nature  than  are  to  be 
studied  in  this  gay  world  of  light  and  sensuality 

[67] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

and  pleasure.  It  is  one  that  radically  marks  the 
difference  between  the  sexes.  Since  the  morning 
of  time  young  women  have  freely  given  themselves 
to  old  men;  young  men  have  rarely  given  them 
selves  to  old  women.  We  revolt  at  the  fact,  as 
we  revolt  at  that  other  fact,  equally  shocking  and 
indisputable,  that  modesty  is  much  less  native  to 
women  than  we  pretend  to  believe  by  a  useful 
social  convention.  Still  both  facts  remain  to  set 
us  hunting  occasionally  for  reasons  that  shall 
satisfy  inquiring  or  unsophisticated  youth. 

Fogazzaro,  the  Italian  novelist,  in  his  book, 
"  The  Saint,"  seeks  to  make  out  that  certain  old 
men  exert  a  mystical  attraction  upon  young 
women,  and  there  are  surely  instances  a-plenty  in 
both  sacred  and  profane  history  to  support  his 
theory.  However,  the  mystical  attraction  with 
which  the  world  is  generally  familiar  in  such  cases 
usually  takes  the  form  of  what  is  vulgarly  called 
the  "  mazuma."  Lacking  that,  the  old  man  has 
the  hardest  kind  of  a  game  to  play,  and  the  in 
stances  in  which  he  wins  out  are  too  few  to  be 
counted.  But  he  commonly  has  the  money,  by 
virtue  of  his  age  and  wisdom;  and  ever  since  that 
gay  old  trifler  Jupiter  appeared  to  a  pleasing 
[68] 


THE  CRAZE  FOR  BEAUTY 

young  woman  in  a  shower  of  gold,  this  form  of 
temptation  has  proven  irresistible  to  the  sex.  So 
long,  then,  as  beauty  deigns  to  dollars  this  appar 
ent  perversion  of  nature  will  continue  and  the 
poet's  mournful  refrain  hold  true— 

fe  Old  men  love  while  young  men  die!  "* 

THE  CRAZE  FOR  BEAUTY 


YORK  is  gone  daft  on  the  subject  of 
female  beauty.  Many  and  strange  are  the 
tokens  of  its  madness.  The  present  carmagnole 
or  craze  for  the  tango,  etc.,  may  be  noted  as  one 
of  the  most  virulent  symptoms.  Venus  victrix 
smiles  at  the  ineffectual  opposition  of  the  preachers 
and  moralists.  It  was  always  thus,  she  says  to 
herself  a  little  wearily. 

Beauty  is  the  engrossing  theme  of  the  popular 
newspapers,  whole  pages  being  given  up  to  it  and 
experts  employed  to  develop  its  every  erotic 
phase. 

Priestesses    of   the    modern    Aphrodite    boldly 

*  In  order  to  complete  this  picture  of  New  York's  night  life  the 
foregoing  brief  chapter  is  borrowed  from  the  Author's  "At  the 
Sign  of  the  Van." 

[69] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

unveil  the  art  and  mystery  of  female  attraction. 
The  flagging  hopes  of  the  plain  woman  are  revived 
from  day  to  day  by  fresh  hints  and  expedients. 
Female  vanity  is  kept  worked  up  to  a  pitch  of 
exacerbation,  which  plays  hob  with  the  economies 
of  the  male  kind.  All  of  which  is  very  profitable 
to  the  newspapers,  the  vendors  of  cosmetics  and 
the  department  stores. 

Women  are  told  that  their  chief  end  and  duty 
in  life  is  to  make  themselves  beautiful.  A  cele 
brated  opera  singer  and  divorcee  advises  them  that 
in  order  to  preserve  the  shape  they  should  (if 
married)  bear  only  one  child  and  that  at  forty! 

Actresses  are  induced  by  flattering  cheques  to 
divulge  their  alleged  "  beauty  secrets,"  and  their 
articles — at  least  those  written  for  them — are  got 
ten  up  with  remarkable  abandon.  It  is  clearly  no 
care  of  milady's  if  they  cause  pangs  of  desire  in 
any  manly  breast.  If  she  was  inclined  to  opulence 
of  flesh,  we  are  told  in  text  and  picture  how  she 
kept  her  curves  within  the  beauty  zone.  If  of  a 
tendency  to  meagreness,  how  she  plumps  herself 
out  to  what  is  technically  termed  a  "  broiler." 

We  are  permitted  to  see  milady  in  the  various 
phases  of  the  toilet,  and  in  none  is  she  chary  of 
[70] 


THE  CRAZE  FOR  BEAUTY 

exposure.  An  odour  of  rice-powder  seems  to  rise 
from  the  elaborate  detail  and  depiction  of  her 
charms. 

Society  ladies  figure  very  prominently  in  this 
vulgar  exhibition  for  the  corruption  of  the  masses. 
Beauty  is  not,  alas!  a  strong  point  with  the  smart 
dames  of  the  Four  Hundred,  but  the  fact  does  not 
seem  to  qualify  their  passion  for  displaying  them 
selves  en  decolletee.  It  is  evident  that  they  make 
it  very  easy  for  the  journalist  to  get  their  portrait. 
The  journalist  rather  more  than  reciprocates  the 
courtesy,  for  he  is  always  pleased  to  make  room 
for  milady's  pet  Pomeranian  in  the  picture. 
Woman  and  dog,  no  doubt,  contribute  vastly  to 
the  simple  pleasures  of  the  multitude. 

Every  visiting  foreigner  is  asked  to  give  his 
impressions  of  the  American  woman,  her  beauty, 
style,  etc.  If  his  remarks  fall  short  of  the  usual 
exaggeration,  the  newspaper  "  edits  "  them  into 
acceptableness.  If  uncomplimentary — that  is, 
strictly  veracious — they  are  usually  suppressed. 

But  perhaps  a  plain  man  may  be  allowed  to 
ask,  without  offence,  where  is  all  the  beauty  that 
the  newspapers  talk  about? 

Nothing  is  so  common  as  the  newspaper  phrase, 

[71] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

a  beautiful  woman:  few  things  are  more  rare  than 
the  actual  sight  of  one.  Perhaps  in  a  normal  life 
time  one  does  not  see  a  score  of  women  really 
deserving  to  be  so  called.  Art  is  nothing  like  so 
fortunate ;  the  classic  past  afforded  but  one  Venus 
de  Medici! 

Where,  oh  where  is  all  the  beauty?  .    .    . 

I  strolled  for  hours  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  saw 
little  or  nothing  of  this  overflowing  and  superabun 
dant  plenty  of  female  pulchritude.  It  is  true  I 
saw  many  women  whose  style  of  dress,  or  partial 
undress,  advertised  the  fact  that  they  deemed 
themselves  beautiful;  but  that  is  a  different 
matter. 

The  old  adage  that  a  modest  woman  is  known 
by  her  dress,  must  be  terribly  out  of  date,  for 
modesty  was  the  one  thing  not  suggested  by  the 
styles  of  costume  referred  to.  What  they  did 
suggest  and  literally  throw  in  your  face,  was  the 
allurement  of  sex.  That  at  least  is  indisputable 
(I  suppose)  whatever  one  may  think  of  the 
alleged  beauty  so  fulsomely  harped  upon  in  the 
journals. 

It  is  natural  and  proper  that  women  should 
dress  in  a  way  to  move  the  admiration  of  men, 
[72] 


THE  CRAZE  FOR  BEAUTY 

but  not  so  as  merely  to  emphasize  the  difference 
of  sex.  This  leads  to  mistakes  which  might  prove 
very  embarrassing. 

Heine  tells  of  being  in  conversation  with  Balzac 
on  the  street  in  Paris  one  day  when  a  lady  of  the 
most  distinguished  appearance  passed  by. 

"  She  is  a  duchess  at  least,"  remarked  the  poet. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  great  romancer;  "  she  is 
une  femme  entretenue"  (a  kept  woman!)  .  .  . 

There  were  very  few  ladies  on  Fifth  Avenue 
that  afternoon  who  would  have  reminded  any  one 
of  a  duchess. 

But  there  were  many  who  made  you  think  of 
chorus  girls,  odalisques,  Cyprians,  files  de  joie, 
by  their  allure  and  manner  of  dressing.  Unques 
tionably,  they  were  for  the  most  part  virtuous 
women  complying  with  the  indecent  fashions  of 
the  hour. 

But  is  it  not  curious  how  the  eternal  Phryne 
always  sets  the  modes  for  her  virtuous  sisters? 
Ah!  what  would  they  not  risk  to  win  something 
of  her  fabled  charm  and  beauty? 

The  hazard  at  least  is  distressingly  evident.  .  .  . 


[73] 


MANNAHATTA  II 


CHANGES  IN  BABYLON 

HARK  YE  now  to  the  tale  of  a  laudator 
temporis  acti.  Back  in  the  'Nineties,  Four 
teenth  Street  ranked  with  the  "  high  spots  "  of  the 
Town  and  was  celebrated  from  Hoboken  to  the 
Golden  Gate.  When  I  knew  it  in  that  not-so- 
remote  epoch,  it  seemed  by  night  a  roaring,  corus 
cating  artery  of  life  and  pleasure,  especially  young 
life  that  balked  at  no  risks  and  no  ginger,  how 
ever  hot  i'  the  mouth,  and  pleasure  that  scorned 
to  take  thought  of  the  morrow.  Tammany  Hall 
was  there,  and  there  also  were  the  crude  liberties 
deemed  symbolical  of  the  Tiger.  From  Second 
Avenue  to  Seventh  you  had  what  the  fine  writers 
call  a  microcosm  of  typical  New  York  life.  Visit 
ing  youth,  eager  for  their  novitiate  of  pleasure, 
plunged  at  once  into  Fourteenth  Street,  which 
as  eagerly  licked  them  up  and  called  for  more. 
Here  was  the  Rialto,  here  were  theatres  and  many 
weird  species  of  amusements,  freak  shows,  concert 
saloons  and  of  a  truth,  drinking  places  galore. 
Tony  Pastor  (with  whom  the  proper  glory  of 
vaudeville  departed)  had  here  his  own  theatre 
[74] 


CHANGES  IN  BABYLON 

and  reigned  without  a  rival,  while  the  Fourteenth 
Street  Theatre  flourished  at  the  high  tide  of  suc 
cess.  Here  was  Theiss's  (famous  or  infamous, 
ri import e,  'tis  but  a  memory)  profiting  by  the 
exuberance  of  young  life — Theiss's  which  many 
a  pensive  oldster  will  recall  for  the  baptism  it 
gave  him.  And  perhaps  there  was  not  a  single 
Babylonish  rite  lacking  in  the  rubric  of  pleasure 
nightly  rehearsed  in  those  few  crowded  blocks  of 
Fourteenth  Street. 

To-day  all  is  for  the  most  part  changed.  Four 
teenth  Street  is  deconstellated  and,  so  to  speak, 
taken  from  the  map.  It  is  practically  dark  at 
night  and  quiet  as  the  Street  of  Deacons  in  a 
Vermont  village;  the  tides  of  life  and  pleasure 
have  swept  beyond  it,  leaving  it  stranded  and 
deserted.  It  still  does  a  little  show  business  in 
the  daytime,  mainly  with  the  Moving  Pictures, 
but  an  old  frequenter  of  the  'Nineties  would 
scarcely  recognize  it  for  the  glory  it  was  in  the 
halcyon  period  here  recalled.  A  little  more  time 
and  the  gloom  of  the  encroaching  warehouse  dis 
trict  will  effectually  extinguish  it.  He  that  would 
seek  the  image  of  what  Fourteenth  Street  was  in 
the  years  of  its  glory  must  hie  him  northward  to 

[75] 


MANN  AHATTA  II 

the  Great  White  Way.  Even  so,  much  that  was 
characteristic  is  perished  and  gone  forever.  Man- 
nahatta  devours  her  children;  brief  are  their 
generation. 

To  an  old-timer  the  eclipse  of  successive  areas 
of  the  Town,  as  business  drives  pleasure  before  it, 
must  be  a  melancholy  sight: — is  it  not  like  seeing 
a  tomb  built  over  your  best  and  happiest  years? 
But  such  is  the  price  we  pay  for  the  vaunted 
progress  of  the  City:  where  there  is  fabulous 
wealth  in  the  counters  of  Commerce  some  of  us 
can  only  see  the  abomination  of  desolation.  Trade 
puts  forth  her  leaden  mace  and  presto!  all  is 
changed  as  by  magic.  Huge  loft  buildings  cover 
the  site  of  cheerful  theatres,  darkness  comes  down 
where  once  the  twinkling  cressets  made  the  night 
as  bright  as  day. 

And  lo!  even  while  we  are  mourning  the  deso 
lation  of  Fourteenth  Street,  the  same  bitter  portion 
has  befallen  Twenty-third  in  the  onward  march  of 
Trade.  Another  bright  artery  of  the  City's  life 
shut  off  and  darkened.  Gone  are  the  theatres 
and  the  tripping  feet  of  pleasure;  gone  the  lady 
with  the  enigmatic  smile  advertising  the  Oldest 
Profession  (she  is  more  apt  to  be  of  the  race  of 
[76] 


CHANGES  IN  BABYLON 

Rahab  than  she  was  twenty  years  ago) .  What 
havoc  in  our  memories,  in  the  ordered  sequence 
of  things!  Here  stood  yesterday  the  Hoffman 
House,  most  celebrated  of  New  York  hotels, 
clustered  thick  with  legends  of  statesmen,  politi 
cians,  leaders  of  every  sort,  beauties  and  dandies. 
Where  is  it  to-day?  Swallowed  with  the  Albe- 
marle  (memorable  to  me  for  that  I  first  met  there 
the  famous  "  Mr.  Dooley,"  then  in  his  fulgent 
meridian)  :  a  monster  of  stone  and  iron  towers 
above  the  familiar  site,  with  not  a  wrinkle  to  show 
where  they  went  down!  The  transformation  is 
repeated  on  every  hand.  Places  as  famous  and 
familiar  as  not  long  ago  was  Martin's  at  Twenty- 
sixth  Street  and  Broadway,  have  vanished  as 
though  they  had  never  been.  Vainly  shall  you 
seek  the  Haymarket  on  Sixth  Avenue  (for  socio 
logical  or  other  reasons) — 'twas  effaced  by  a 
spasm  of  reform.  Even  the  Tenderloin — a  whole 
district! — has  gathered  up  its  skirts  and  flown  to 
the  Fifties. 

It  seems  our  cue  to  follow: — the  modest  reader 
may  rely  upon  the  discretion  of  this  personally 
conducted  tour. 

[77] 


MANNAHATTA  II 


THE    GREAT    WHITE    WAY 

THE  ROMANCERS  of  the  daily  press  have 
dubbed  the  stretch  of  Broadway  from 
Thirty-fourth  to  the  Fifties  the  Great  White  Way, 
in  allusion  to  the  quantity  of  electric  illumination 
in  that  section.  Here  or  hereabouts  are  the  princi 
pal  theatres  and  many  of  the  leading  hotels,  swell 
cafes,  night  resorts,  etc.,  and  here  the  pulse  of 
temptation  is  supposed  to  beat  a  feverish  tattoo. 
It  is  a  gaudy,  garish  region,  but  an  unbeautiful, 
spite  of  the  romancing  journalist;  the  electric 
signs,  with  all  their  prodigal  waste  of  light,  are 
hideous  to  the  eye,  and  they  insult  the  soul  with 
base  advertisements.  They  leap  the  dome  of 
heaven  in  letters  of  fire  to  proclaim  the  virtues 
of  a  Chewing  Gum  or  a  Breakfast  Food,  of  a 
St.  Louis  Beer  or  a  Purgative  Pill.  They  fla 
grantly  typify  and  exploit  a  phase  of  the  material 
mediocrity  of  New  York — the  catchpenny  spirit 
which  cheapens  and  degrades  whatever  it  touches. 
There  are  grand  hotels — the  grandest  and  surely 
the  most  expensive  in  America,  in  this  region,  but 
as  a  whole  it  is  about  as  crazy  and  heterogeneous 
[78] 


THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

as  one  could  imagine.  It  betrays  a  people  in 
whom  there  is  no  defined  artistic  sense;  who  may 
achieve  something  beautiful  by  accident  or  some 
thing  monstrous  by  design.  The  lack  of  any  rul 
ing  principle  of  beauty — even  of  mere  order  and 
regularity,  of  anything  resembling  a  plan, — the 
jumbled,  higgledy-piggledy  character  of  the  build 
ings  and  their  environments,  especially  above 
Forty-second  Street, — are  a  howling  disgrace  to  a 
city  of  metropolitan  pretensions.  If  I  were  asked 
to  name  a  part  of  New  York  that  should  exhibit 
in  microcosm  most  of  her  defects  and,  above  all, 
the  barbarism  that  cries  out  amid  her  marvellous 
display  of  wealth,  I  would  name  the  Great  White 
Way. 

But  if  this  region  be  grotesque  by  comparison 
with  the  splendid  symmetry,  the  ordered  magnifi 
cence  of  Paris  or  Vienna,  it  is  not  the  less  humanly 
interesting  in  its  own  fashion;  and  I  cheerfully 
devote  to  it  a  few  pages. 

Here  is  the  most  celebrated  habitat  of  the  free 
spender  in  America  and  the  pare  aux  cerfs  of 
those  who  pursue  delicately  the  lure  of  the  flesh. 
In  other  words,  this  is  a  hothouse  wherein  strange 
fruits  of  pleasure  are  nursed  to  a  perilous  ma- 

[79] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

turity,  concerning  which  stranger  tales  are  told 
by  men  who  do  not  seem  the  happier  for  the 
telling;  such  tales  as  may  not  even  be  hinted  at 
in  these  discreet  pages.  In  short,  this  is  what  the 
newspapers  call  the  "  amusement  section "  (ele 
gant  phrase!)  of  the  Metropolis,  and  the  amuse 
ments  are  varied  to  suit  tastes  the  most  perverse 
and  exacting.  That  is  as  much  as  it  is  good  for 
you  to  know,  pudent  reader! 

Here  is  a  large  population  that  lives  by  pleas 
ure,  its  means  and  procurements,  and  especially 
dedicate  to  what  Kipling  calls  "  love  o'  women." 
A  hectic  folk,  cocottes,  souteneurs,  gamblers,  men- 
about-town,  rakes,  wastrels,  all  mixed  up  in  a 
humorous  promiscuity.  The  grace  of  God  is  lack 
ing  among  them,  but  there  is,  by  compensation, 
a  terrible  zest  of  life.  Here  the  "  actor's  face  " 
seems  native,  and  the  dialect  of  the  theatre  salutes 
you  on  every  hand;  vaudevillians  abound  and  the 
sharp-faced  emissaries  of  the  Sons  of  Sem.  Here 
the  young  Ass  pursues  his  peccadillo,  often  pluck 
ing  therewith  its  penalty,  and  the  Old  Sinner  fishes 
with  a  troubled  eye.  If  the  whole  truth  of  what 
happens  in  this  amusing  district  between  midnight 
and  five  o'clock  of  any  morning  could  be  told— 
[80] 


THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

well,  I  will  only  say  that  it  would  be  very  much 
more  interesting  than  the  romances  of  the  Yellow 
Press. 

And  it  was  here  I  saw  a  sight  that  has  remained 
before  my  mind's  eye  above  all  the  spectacles  that 
New  York  had  to  show  me.  I  speak  of  the  white 
feet  on  Broadway  in  the  vivid  centre  of  the  Great 
White  Way.  Feet  of  young  girls  in  white  shoes, 
with  shortened  skirts.  Twinkling  feet,  gliding 
feet.  Here  and  there  restlessly  treading  amid  the 
crowds.  Going  and  returning.  Stopping  now  and 
then  for  a  moment.  Sometimes  moving  very 
swiftly  and  again  strolling  with  leisurely 
pace.  Twinkling  white  feet  of  young  girls 
on  Broadway.  This  was  the  most  wonderful 
thing  I  saw  during  the  night  hours  in  New 
York. 

These  girls  were  quite  young — some  of  them 
seemed  mere  children — and  they  were  made  up 
to  accentuate  their  youth — that  most  coveted 
flower  of  the  Great  White  Way.  Most  of  them 
were  beautiful,  yet  one  was  troubled  at  the  first 
glance  whether  their  beauty  was  of  innocent,  untar 
nished  youth.  Where  were  they  going,  those 
white  feet  on  Broadway,  and  what  errand  called 

[81] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

them  abroad  that  night?     Were  they  hunting  or 
hunted,  pursuing  or  pursued?     God  knows. 

But  this  I  noticed,  that  very  seldom  were  two 
of  these  girls  together;  they  went  their  devious 
way  single  and  unpaired;  they  might  meet  and 
greet  each  other,  as  they  often  did,  but  each  would 
turn  and  go  her  way  alone. 

Little  white  feet  on  Broadway,  threading  the 
crowd  so  surely  and  fearlessly,  walking  amid 
snares  and  traps  which  the  imagination  dare  not 
picture.  Young  faces  passing  suddenly  that  leave 
a  strange  pang  at  one's  heart.  Why  this  sorrow 
you  cast  upon  us?  Why  this  fear  you  leave  with 
us  in  passing?  Why  this  impulse  to  follow  and 
save  you  from  something  we  dare  not  name? 
White  feet  like  gulls  in  the  great  human  sea. 
Flying  hither  and  thither.  Now  and  again  lost 
in  the  confluent  crowds,  but  always  emerging. 
Going  and  returning.  Moving  restlessly  or  stop 
ping  but  for  a  moment.  Ever  apparently  aim 
less  and  ever  dreadfully  intent  on  something  we 
dare  not  name.  As  the  hours  passed  you  fluttered 
away  finally — whither?  Even  as  the  gulls,  it  was 
impossible  to  track  your  flight;  but  one  by  one 
you  went  and  did  not  return. 
[82] 


THE  MORGAN  LIBRARY 

White  feet  on  Broadway,  do  you  trample  any 

mother's  heart — do  you  walk  the  ways  of  shame 

and  death?     Little  white  feet  of  young  girls  on 

Broadway,   what   were   you   seeking   that   night? 

God  knows! 


THE    MORGAN    LIBRARY 

IT  IS  generally  allowed  that  the  late  J.  Pierpont 
Morgan  was  a  man  of  marked  genius  in  sev 
eral  capacities;  a  giant  among  financiers,  a  busi 
ness  builder  and  organizer  without  an  equal,  a 
capitalist  who  combined  imagination  with  the 
greatest  practical  sagacity.  His  wealth  and  power 
were  the  envy  of  all  men  and  no  doubt  prevented 
the  public  from  forming  a  just  estimate  of  his 
character.  Unquestionably,  he  dominated  the  pub 
lic  mind  beyond  any  other  private  citizen  of  the 
Republic;  there  were  times  when,  as  during  the 
money  panic  several  years  ago,  he  quite  dwarfed 
even  the  President  of  the  United  States  (who  hap 
pened  to  be  the  egocentric  Roosevelt). 

Even  in  Europe  Mr.  Morgan  excited  nearly  as 
much  interest  and  was  almost  as  grossly  flattered 
by  press  and  public.  He  was  Mr.  Morgan  of 

[83] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

London  quite  as  much  as  he  was  Mr.  Morgan  of 
New  York.  His  financial  projects  were  received 
with  great  favour  and  respect  by  the  most  con 
servative,  and  the  highest  nobles  sought  him  as  if 
to  avail  themselves  of  that  Midas-touch  which 
turned  all  things  into  gold.  Mr.  Morgan  was  not 
too  proudly  democratic  to  do  business  with  them, 
and  meantime  he  looked  after  an  interest  that  was 
even  dearer  to  his  heart.  Needless  to  recount  here 
his  wonderful  campaigns  as  a  collector  by  which 
he  enriched  the  Metropolitan  Museum  with  the 
costliest,  most  coveted  art  treasures  of  European 
galleries.  This  was  his  amusement  rather  than  his 
work,  but  the  genius  of  the  man  appeared  no  less 
in  his  coups  as  a  collector  than  in  his  financial 
and  industrial  operations.  He  attracted  to  him 
self  something  of  the  greatness  of  the  Medici;  like 
a  prince  he  gave  and  like  a  prince  he  acquired  in 
the  domain  of  Art. 

I  am  not  attempting  here  a  eulogy  of  Mr. 
Morgan,  and  I  believe  that  we  know  little  enough 
about  the  real  man: — the  Morgan  of  the  news 
papers  was  largely  a  mythical  person  created  by 
the  dollar-worshipping  journalist,  for  great  as  his 
wealth  was,  we  know  that  it  was  exaggerated  in 
[84] 


THE  MORGAN  LIBRARY 

the  newspaper  estimates.  But  I  grant  his  splen 
did  gifts  to  the  cause  of  Art  in  this  country,  and 
I  have  a  great  admiration  for  the  genius  which 
acquired  and  the  munificence  which  bestowed 
them.  The  question  as  to  how  his  immense  for 
tune  was  come  by,  or  whether  millionaires  are  as 
a  class  desirable,  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  present 
subject. 

Mr.  Morgan,  then,  was  a  collector  in  the  Grand 
Style,  and  nothing  that  he  did  or  left  behind  him 
so  strikingly  attests  his  greatness  in  this  aspect 
as  his  own  Library  in  East  Thirty-sixth  Street. 
Here,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  costliest  section  of 
New  York,  he  raised  a  beautiful  building — a  clas 
sic  marble  structure — for  the  housing  of  such 
literary  treasures  and  rarities  as  he  prized  too 
intimately  to  entrust  to  any  public  institution.  He 
who  had  given  so  much  to  the  public  would  yet 
keep  something  for  himself;  yet  even  in  this  pos 
session  he  was  not  jealously  exclusive,  for  he  threw 
open  the  Library  at  times  to  scholars,  authors, 
students  and  others  capable  of  valuing  the  priv 
ilege — a  policy  which  is  continued  with  equal  lib 
erality  by  his  son,  the  present  J.  P.  Morgan.  The 
building,  its  ground  site  and  its  treasures  are  esti- 

[85] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

mated  at  several  millions  of  dollars;  as  a  privately 
owned  library,  it  is  without  an  equal  in  the  world. 
As  I  have  said,  it  is  undoubtedly  Mr.  Morgan's 
finest  achievement  in  the  Grand  Style — the  one 
that  most  signally  compliments  his  genius. 

The  privilege  of  visiting  the  Library  and  in 
specting  some  of  its  treasures — (it  would  require 
many  visits  to  examine  the  collection  in  detail )- 
was  accorded  to  me,  and  this  I  account  the  most 
fortunate  incident  of  my  brief  sojourn  in  New 
York. 

Mr.  Morgan's  chief  pride  was  in  his  Library, 
and  here  he  passed  his  happiest  hours,  according 
to  Miss  Belle  Da  Costa  Greene,  the  charming  and 
very  capable  Librarian.  While  showing  me  the 
things  I  most  desired  to  see,  she  recalled  personal 
traits  of  Mr.  Morgan  which  did  not  agree  at  all 
with  the  image  of  the  truculent  financier  projected 
by  the  newspapers.  Always  at  Christmas  time 
he  made  her  read  to  him  the  "  Christmas  Carol " 
from  Dickens's  original  manuscript.  It  is  written, 
by  the  way,  in  a  very  small,  crowded  script,  and 
I  reckon  that  Miss  Greene  fully  earned  her  large 
salary  while  she  was  so  employed. 

The  original  MSS.  of  famous  English  classics 
[86] 


THE  MORGAN  LIBRARY 

are  the  most  interesting  feature  of  the  Morgan 
Library.  I  allowed  to  myself  that  money  was  of 
some  use,  after  all,  when  I  was  permitted  to  hold 
in  my  hands  (not  merely  to  look  at  them  in  a 
glass  case)  the  very  pages  on  which  were  first 
written  poems  that  have  possessed  my  heart  from 
early  youth.  As  I  turn  these  precious  leaves,  still 
vital  with  inspiration  though  tarnished  by  time,  I 
think  there  has  been  no  great  literature  made  since 
the  typewriter — that  arch-leveller  and  aid  to  medi 
ocrity — has  come  into  use.  Here,  for  example, 
is  the  MS.  of  Tom  Moore's  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  traced 
in  the  minute,  delicate  hand  of  the  Irish  poet. 
How  it  recalls  to  me  my  first  peep  into  that  won 
drous  arabesque  of  poetry  and  music!  I  close  my 
eyes  and  see  the  printed  page  before  me  as  clearly 
as  I  did,  an  enchanted  boy.  And  there  are  the 
sonorous  opening  lines  of  the  "  Veiled  Prophet," 
as  I  have  never  forgotten  them: — verily,  old 
Mokanna,  I  would  give  somewhat  to  recover  the 
years  since  our  first  meeting.  Eagerly  I  look  to 
see  if  they  are  the  very  same— 

In  that  delightful  province  of  the  sun, 
The  first  of  Persian  lands  he  shines  upon, 

[87] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

Where  all  the  loveliest  children  of  his  beam, 
Flowerets  and  fruits,  blush  over  every  stream, 
And  fairest  of  all  streams,  the  Murga  roves 
Among  Merous  bright  palaces  and  groves. 


Yes,  the  lines  are  indeed  the  same,  and  the  flow 
ing  music,  and  perhaps  the  magic  is  still  there  for 
young  hearts  and  eyes ;  but  a  chilling  wind  of  time 
seems  to  blow  from  the  page  upon  the  present 
reader.  Alas !  life  once  dazzled  even  as  this  poem, 
and  life,  too,  has  faded.  I  put  down  Mokanna  with 
a  sigh,  yet  smiling  at  his  awful  wickedness  which 
once  filled  my  young  dreams  with  terror.  (I  have 
since  met  unveiled  Mokannas  who  were  far  more 
formidable.)  Dear,  kind,  tuneful  Tommy  Moore, 
how  could  he  think  to  create  a  terrible  villain  when 
all  his  witchery  was  love,  moonlight  and  music? 
I  turn  a  few  more  pages,  and  lo!  I  forgive  him 
his  Mokanna  for  "  The  Banks  of  the  Calm  Ben- 
demeer  "  —an  Irish  melody,  very  slightly  oriental 
ized.  Maybe  it  is  not  poetry  at  all,  as  some  of 
the  later  finicky  critics  protest;  but  it  caught  me 
young,  Messieurs,  and  your  clever  arguments  do 
not  touch  the  heart.  Even  now  my  faithful  mem 
ory  revives  no  small  part  of  the  old  charm  and— 
[88] 


THE  MORGAN  LIBRARY 

I  think,  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet? 
Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Eendeemer? 


I  take  up  the  original  manuscript  of  the  First 
Canto  of  "  Don  Juan "  by  the  wicked  Lord 
Byron,  who  was  the  adoration  of  my  youth  and 
whom  (unlike  so  many  wiser  critics  of  my  time) 
I  have  never  abandoned.  Do  I  love  him  so  much 
because  I  can  always  find  my  youth  in  his  pages? 
Perhaps ;  first  loves  in  literature  are  apt  to  endure. 
And  criticism  is  only  relished  by  persons  of  middle 
age  who  have  lost  the  flair  for  poetry  and  romance. 
Youth  I  am  sure  will  never  turn  from  the  Childe. 

And  the  spell  of  that  strong  spirit  is  freshly 
revived  for  me  by  the  sight  of  this  page  which  his 
own  hand  traced,  under  the  full  current  of  inspira 
tion.  Heigh-ho!  once  upon  a  time  I  knew  dozens 
of  these  stanzas  by  heart,  especially  those  dealing 
with  the  love  scrapes  of  Juan,  and  my  naughty 
schoolmates  used  to  bribe  me  to  recite  them.  I 
had  to  read  the  book  by  stealth,  my  father  regard 
ing  Byron  as  the  Devil  himself!  I  have  never 
thought  to  forbid  him  to  my  own  children,  and 
in  point  of  fact,  I  can't  see  the  "  Satanism  "  with 
which  he  has  been  charged.  There  be  writers  more 

[89] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

dangerous  than  my  Lord  Byron,  if  I  know  any 
thing  of  literature.  And  I'm  glad  I  read  him 
young,  for  no  poetry  has  ever  affected  me  with 
stronger  impressions  than  parts  of  the  "  Don," 
Childe  Harold,  Mazeppa,  the  Siege  of  Corinth, 
Parisina,  and  the  Prisoner  of  Chillon. 

Also  I  am  glad  that  my  Lord  Byron  lived  before 
the  typewriter;  the  poet  working  and  transcribing 
with  the  pen  is  more  apt  to  start  miracles. 
Byron  writes  as  with  a  sword;  his  script,  bold, 
dashing,  irregular,  is  entirely  characteristic  of  his 
genius. 

I  saw  Byron's  own  copy  of  the  first  edition  of 
the  early  cantos  of  "  Don  Juan,"  published  by 
Galignani  of  Paris.  The  poet  has  made  an  auto 
graph  note  where  Don  Alfonso  is  described  as 
having  surprised  Juan  with  his  wife.  Ask  Miss 
Greene  to  show  it  you;  it's  really  worth  while. 

Keats  and  Shelley  are  represented  by  manu 
script  originals  of  their  choicest  poems,  and  there 
is  a  lock  of  Keats's  hair,  brown  and  glossy  as 
when  it  was  cut  from  his  head.  Upon  first  seeing 
it,  the  late  Richard  Watson  Gilder  fainted  and 
Charles  Hanson  Towne  threw  off  a  sonnet  on  the 
spot.  It  is  perhaps  the  most  expensive  lock  of 
[90] 


IN  NUBIBUS 

hair  in  the  world.  Oh,  it  is  useful  to  have  money 
if  you  wish  to  collect  such  things. 

I  like  to  think  of  the  great  J.  Pierpont  Morgan 
recreating  himself  among  these  literary  treasures, 
and  having  the  "  Christmas  Carol "  read  to  him 
from  the  author's  manuscript.  It's  a  picture  that 
inclines  one  to  believe,  after  all,  in  the  essential 
humanness  of  our  millionaires — a  thing  that  is 
popularly  scouted.  But  then,  Mr.  Morgan  was 
a  man  of  genius! 

IN  NUBIBUS 

/GENTLE  READER,  if  you  are  thinking 
VJT  perchance  that  we  have  sometimes  dived  low 
in  the  preceding  pages,  seeking  life  at  its  rankest 
and  fullest,  I  propose  to  soar  high  with  you  as  a 
fitting  climax  to  this  truthful  narrative.  Take  a 
long  breath,  for  you  will  need  your  best  wind. 
Now  then!  .  .  . 

Up — up — up  amid  the  clouds  and  the  keen 
sunshine,  eight  hundred  feet  above  the  solid  ground 
of  Manhattan;  higher  than  the  builders  of  Babel 
climbed  in  their  impious  project  to  outwit  the 
watchful  Yahveh. 

[91] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

Steady,  my  reader! — we  have  shot  up  sixty 
stories,  and  are  now  standing  on  the  topmost  tur 
ret  of  the  Woolworth  Building,  the  greatest  of 
the  stone  giants  of  New  York  and,  I  dare  say, 
taken  all-in-all,  the  most  wonderful  structure 
dedicate  to  business  uses  in  the  world. 

In  the  foregoing  pages  I  have  sought  to  avoid 
the  subject  of  money  and  especially  millions  of 
money,  which  is  mouthed  to  disgust  by  the  news 
papers  and  New  York  guide-books,  etc.  But  here 
I  am  content  to  mark  an  exception.  For  high  as 
we  have  ascended,  we  can't  get  above  this  fact — 
that  the  Woolworth  was  builded  of  the  nickels 
and  dimes  of  the  plain  American  people!  It  is 
of  these  nickels  and  dimes  poured  forth  from 
thousands  of  scanty  purses  that  I  think  rather 
than  of  the  celebrated  Five-Million-Dollar  check 
which  Mr.  Woolworth  is  said  to  have  given  in 
part  payment  for  his  building.  Dear  man,  he 
must  have  had  many  a  white  night  while  raising 
his  Jacob's  Ladder  to  heaven  with  the  small  coins 
of  the  poor.  But  his  achievement  more  than  repaid 
him,  we  may  well  believe;  it  exemplifies  the 
romance  of  commerce  which  we  owe  now  and  then 
to  exceptional  men.  Certainly  the  Woolworth 
[92] 


IN  NUBIBUS 

ranks  with  the  half-dozen  most  wonderful  sights 
of  New  York.  It  is  not  simply  an  immense  stone 
cylinder  raised  on  a  framework  of  steel,  as  many 
of  these  great  buildings  are:  it  has  beauty  and 
harmony  of  parts  in  an  uncommon  degree,  and 
an  individuality  of  style  which  literally  puts  it  in 
a  class  by  itself.  In  a  word,  the  architecture  of 
the  Woolworth  exhibits  genius  instead  of  daring 
of  the  freak  order,  which  latter  we  are  too  much 
used  to  expect.  I  know  of  nothing  in  New  York 
to  compare  with  the  effect  the  rich  and  yet 
grandly  simple  fa$ade  produces.  As  splendid 
as  a  battleship,  I  would  say — if  I  may  be  allowed 
the  simile.  (This  merely  as  a  parenthesis  while 
the  reader  is  getting  his  second  wind.) 

Looking  from  our  lofty  turret,  we  seem  to  be 
in  the  car  of  a  balloon,  so  great  is  the  height,  while 
the  mighty  Metropolis  at  our  feet  is  dwindled  to 
a  checker-board. 

Far  below  us  a  golden  ball  sparkles — it  is  the 
dome  of  the  "  World  "  Building,  not  so  many  years 
ago  reputed  the  chief  wonder  of  this  section  of 
Manhattan.  Soaring  many  stories  higher,  but  still 
falling  far  short  of  our  supreme  isolation,  is  the 
Titan  that  men  name  the  Singer  Building;  and 

[93] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

more  remote  we  mark  the  graceful  campanile  of 
the  Metropolitan,  outstripped  by  us  a  sheer  hun 
dred  feet.  All  other  so-called  sky-scrapers,  tre 
mendous  and  towering,  regarded  from  an  ordinary 
standpoint,  have  dropped  out  of  the  race  ad 
nubes.  The  Woolworth  is  first  and  the  rest- 
nowhere  ! 

Here  be  altitudes,  my  masters.  From  this 
wind-crannying  eyrie  how  comically  shrunken  and 
diminished  appear  many  of  the  Great  City's  mar 
vels!  Old  Jacob  of  the  Silver  Ladder,  you  are 
spoiling  a  lot  of  poetry  for  us.  Down  there  in 
the  harbour,  sadly  shorn  of  majesty  from  our  pride 
o'  place,  rises  (should  I  not  rather  say,  sinks?) 
Liberty  with  her  torch.  Certes,  she  appears  to  be 
going  down,  from  past  conceptions,  for  she  is  full 
five  hundred  feet  below  us;  yet,  pedestal  and  all, 
she  reaches  the  respectable  stature  of  three  hun 
dred  feet! 

Everything  seems  reduced  on  the  same  scale — 
we  are  Brobdingnagians  looking  down  upon 
Lilliput.  The  far-famed  Brooklyn  Bridge? — tut, 
tut,  a  mere  hand's  breadth,  and  the  East  River— 
a  puny  creek.  Mighty  ships  ride  at  anchor  in  the 
Bay,  but  they  appear  as  cock-boats  from  this 
[94] 


IN  NUBIBUS 

height — we  are  looking  through  the  wrong  end 
of  the  glass  for  wonderment. 

Lower  Manhattan  seems  paved  with  children's 
playing  blocks — these  are  the  houses  and  ordinary 
structures.  We  look  straight  down  on  Park  Place 
and  Broadway: — automobiles  flit  about,  ant-size, 
and  our  fellow-humans  are  too  small  to  be  taken 
into  account.  It  is  the  megalomania  of  the  gods, 
for  nothing  below  seems  equal  to  ourselves  or  even 
worthy  of  our  notice. 

No  sounds  reach  us  from  the  turmoil  of  traffic, 
the  roar  of  the  human  diapason  in  the  streets  far 
beneath — yet  is  it  the  noisiest  quarter  of  the  Great 
City;  not  a  wave  mounts  to  us  from  the  leaping 
human  tempest  where  Stentor  could  scarce  make 
himself  audible.  We  have  won  to  the  silence  of 
the  greater  heights. 

Even  so  the  gods  must  look  down  from  Olym 
pus,  despising  the  ant-like  beings  on  the  earth,  who 
think  to  reach  them  with  their  vain  prayers  and 
to  propitiate  them  with  foolish  adoration:  from 
their  supreme  height,  hearing  not  a  whisper  of  the 
earthly  tumult  and  untouched,  save  to  laughter 
and  contempt,  by  all  the  vicissitudes  of  the  human 
spectacle.  .  .  . 

[95] 


MANNAHATTA  II 

Guy  de  Maupassant  tells  us  that  he  left  Paris 
once  for  a  long  journey  because  he  had  commenced 
to  fear  the  Eiffel  Tower  would  fall  upon  him. 
Contrariwise,  I  felt  that  the  Woolworth  was  quite 
solid  and  safe  when  regretfully,  at  the  end  of  my 
seven  days,  I  bade  farewell  to  Mannahatta.  Par 
don! — Au  revoir,  of  course. 


[96] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 
ONE 

BALZAC   THE  LOVER 

WRITING  TO  his  beloved  sister,  Laure, 
in  the  midst  of  his  first  obscure  literary 
efforts,  Balzac  said:  "I  have  none  of  the  flowers 
of  life,  and  yet  I  am  in  the  season  when  they 
bloom!  What  is  the  good  of  fortune  and  joys 
when  youth  is  past?  Of  what  use  the  actor's  gar 
ments  if  one  does  not  play  the  role?  The  old  man 
is  one  who  has  dined  and  looks  at  others  eating. 
I  am  young  and  my  plate  is  empty,  and  I  am 
hungry,  Laure!  Will  ever  my  two  only,  immense 
desires — to  be  famous  and  to  be  loved — be  sat 
isfied?" 

They  were,  in  a  fashion  memorable  enough— 
and  this  was  the  life-tragedy  of  Honore  de  Balzac. 

It  is  said  that  there  have  been  nearly  as  many 
books,  essays,  monographs  written  upon  the  great 
French  novelist  as  upon  Shakespeare,  and  there 

[99] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

is  yet  no  let-up  to  this  torrent  of  literature  called 
forth  by  one  of  the  greatest  of  its  masters.  The 
fact  is  eloquent  of  the  supremacy  of  Balzac,  seeing 
that  Shakespeare  had  over  two  hundred  years  the 
start  of  him  and  that  he  worked  in  what  is 
regarded  as  a  higher  domain  of  letters. 

Scarcely  less  interesting  is  the  fact  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  literature  which  in  several 
tongues  has  swelled  the  Balzac  "  legend,"  deals 
mainly  with  the  man's  life  and  personality.  It 
is  much  to  say,  but  the  remark  may  be  ventured, 
that  the  "  Human  Comedy "  is  in  some  danger 
of  being  eclipsed  in  point  of  interest  by  the  author 
thereof.  Sixty-six  years  after  his  death  in  a 
tragic  despair  that  he  was  not  suffered  to  com 
plete  his  giant  task,  Balzac  has  entered  upon  a 
harvest  of  fame  of  which  even  he  never  dreamed. 
"  Glory,"  he  once  wrote,  "  is  the  sun  of  the  dead ;  " 
—that  sun  is  now  fully  risen  upon  the  builder  of 
the  "Human  Comedy." 

BALZAC'S  STUDIES  of  women  in  his  novels, 
especially  the  greater  ones,  throw  a  vivid 
light    upon   his    artistic    daring    and    originality. 
Whatever  faults  of  overdrawing  might  be  charged 
[100] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

to  them,  they  must  be  recognized  for  what  they 
were  on  their  first  appearance, — a  new  departure 
in  fiction  and  the  work  of  a  master  mind.  In 
Balzac's  gallery  of  women  the  daughters  of  Lilith 
abound  more  than  the  saints;  we  have  nothing 
in  English  fiction  to  compare  with  them — as  in 
truth,  we  have  no  writer  (I  do  not  say  novelist, 
he  was  more  than  that)  who  has  approached 
Balzac's  achievement.  In  view,  therefore,  of  the 
Frenchman's  attitude  toward  the  women  of  his 
books,  the  question  of  his  personal  relations  with 
the  enigmatic  sex  becomes  of  mordant  interest. 

Thanks  to  the  searchlight  scrutiny  to  which  the 
life  and  memorials  of  Balzac  have  been  subjected 
in  recent  years,  we  have  learned  more  than  his  con 
temporaries  knew  or  suspected. 

For  one  thing,  we  have  discredited  the  legend 
of  personal  chastity  and  continence  which  he  was  at 
so  great  pains  to  set  up  concerning  Honore  de  Bal 
zac!  He  wished  the  world  to  believe  that  because 
of  this  virtue,  very  uncommon  among  Frenchmen, 
he  was  able  to  perform  and  to  continue  his  im 
mense  labours.  Chastity,  he  declared,  was  the  se 
cret  reservoir  of  creative  power,  the  source  of  those 
divinations  which  stamp  the  man  of  genius;  it 

[101] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

even  implied  certain  occult  faculties,  as  he  sought 
to  show  in  "  Cousin  Pons."  In  conversation  with 
his  friends,  as  in  his  writings,  the  theme  was  a 
favourite  one  with  our  hero,  and  Gautier  (who  was 
not  personally  inclined  toward  the  theory)  tells 
us  that  a  half-hour  meeting  with  the  Beloved  once 
a  year  was  the  utmost  indulgence  Balzac  would 
allow  to  a  literary  artist.  He  would  not  hear  of 
instances  of  famous  writers  noted  for  their  incon 
tinence  : — they  had  simply  cheated  themselves,  was 
his  position.  Alas!  like  many  a  moralist,  it  doth 
not  appear  that  his  practice  squared  with  his  pre 
cept  ;  though  admitting  all  that  is  brought  forward 
concerning  his  "  amours,"  it  would  be  unfair  to 
charge  him  with  great  libertinism.  To  this  re 
proach  his  amazing  and  unexampled  literary  pro 
duction  remains  a  sufficient  answer.  So  good  a 
judge  of  such  matters  as  the  famous  George  Sand 
seems  to  have  taken  him  at  his  word,  for  she  writes : 
"  Moderate  in  every  other  respect,  his  life  exhibited 
the  purest  morals,  since  he  always  dreaded  licen 
tiousness  as  the  enemy  of  talent.  He  pursued 
chastity  on  principle,  and  his  relations  with  the 
fair  sex  were  those  merely  of  curiosity." 

This  is  contradicted  by  Balzac's  sister,  Laure, 
[102] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

who,  with  all  her  love  for  him,  would  not  consent 
to  any  false  touches  in  his  portrait.  ;'  It  is  an 
error,"  she  says,  "  to  speak  of  his  extreme  modera 
tion.  He  does  not  deserve  this  praise.  Outside 
of  his  work,  which  was  first  and  foremost,  he  loved 
and  tasted  all  the  pleasures  of  this  world." 

By  the  way,  our  hero  was  not  physically 
attracted  by  George  Sand,  though  he  admired  her 
talents  in  a  qualified  degree  and  esteemed  her  as 
un  bon  camarade.  We  find  him  explaining  to 
Madame  Hanska  that  she  had  no  ground  to  be 
jealous  of  the  author  of  "  Indiana,"  and  for  once 
he  was  probably  telling  the  whole  truth.  George 
Sand,  in  complimenting  his  virtue,  perhaps  took 
the  woman's  view  that  what  was  not  for  her  was 
not  for  another. 

The  truth  seems  to  be  that  Balzac  was  about  as 
moral  as  the  average  Frenchman  of  his  time,  and 
though  not  a  deliberate  seeker  of  bonnes  fortunes, 
his  heroism  fell  short  of  putting  aside  those  which 
came  along,  so  to  speak,  in  a  proper  way.  Espe 
cially  he  was  not  averse  to  forming  very  intimate 
relations  with  ladies  of  quality.  Aristocracy  was 
indeed  a  lifelong  bait  to  the  little  great  man,  and 
one  can  fancy  him  in  the  shades  almost  deploring 

[103] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

his  immense  renown  because  people  will  drop  the 
"  de  "  from  his  name — a  nobiliary  particle  to  which 
he  had  no  legitimate  title. 

His  first  (recorded)  love  affair,  with  a  Madame 
de  Berny,  helped  to  fix  the  aristocratic  habit  upon 
him  to  which  he  was  inclined  by  his  tastes  and 
pretensions.  He  was  then  twenty-two  and  the 
lady  was  double  his  age,  being  the  mother  of  nine 
children.  Her  husband  was  a  man  of  noble  lin 
eage,  and  her  father,  a  talented  musician,  had  been 
in  favour  at  the  Court  of  Louis  XVI.  This  affair 
probably  saved  him  from  some  of  the  typical  in 
discretions  of  French  youth,  but  for  a  contra,  it 
undoubtedly  stained  his  imagination: — the  ghost 
of  this  maternal  mistress  rises  in  many  of  his 
pages  devoted  to  the  unsparing  analysis  of  illicit 
passion.  But  it  has  a  kinder  and  purer  associa 
tion  with  the  heroine  of  the  "  Lily  of  the  Valley," 
in  writing  the  description  of  whose  affecting  death 
bed  scene  Balzac  confesses  that  he  was  moved  to 
tears. 

Madame  de  Berny 's  husband  was  living  at  the 
time  of  this  liaison,  which  terminated,  without 
rupture,  through  a  failure  of  ardour  on  the  young 
man's  side;  it  appears  not  that  Monsieur  de  Berny 
[  104  ] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

knew  of  the  "  romance."  He  was  of  the  order  of 
blind  rather  than  complaisant  husbands,  and  his 
wife  is  said  to  have  taken  a  lover  before  Balzac. 
The  Eighteenth  century  easiness  of  morals,  espe 
cially  in  correct  society,  was  not  yet  exhausted. 

The  Dilecta  (Beloved),  as  Balzac  called  the 
mature  lady  of  his  affections,  swayed  him  for  a 
time  by  appealing  to  and  fostering  his  literary 
ambition.  She  seems  to  have  given  him  intelligent 
counsels  for  the  most  part,  and  to  have  "moth 
ered  "  him,  as  we  say  in  our  English  idiom.  She 
improved  his  manners,  which  were  boisterously 
self-assertive  and  to  the  end  somewhat  vulgar,  and 
she  unluckily  confirmed  him  in  those  aristocratic 
notions  and  royalist  politics  which,  in  the  eyes  of 
a  later  generation,  often  go  far  toward  spoiling 
his  work  and  making  the  writer  absurd.  Balzac 
from  the  outset  of  his  career  leaned  upon  women, 
gave  them  much  and  expected  still  more  in  return. 
It  is  notable  that  all  his  favourite  heroes  follow 
suit: — women  and  money  are  the  rulers  of  their 
destiny  as  of  his  own. 

Madame  de  Berny,  to  repeat,  had  her  share  in 
the  conception  and  ordering  of  the  "  Comedy." 
She  aided  him  with  her  money  in  his  first  business 

[105] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

venture,  which  proved  a  failure,  and  thus  laid  the 
ply  of  that  tendency  of  his  to  look  to  women  for 
help,  which  more  or  less  marked  his  whole  after 
life.  Finally,  she  was  a  good  friend  and  a  grate 
ful  mistress,  and  with  the  usual  fatality  that  rules 
such  affairs,  she  introduced  Balzac  to  her  successor 
in  his  affections — the  Duchesse  de  Castries. 

This  was  a  high  flight  for  a  young  man  of 
twenty-five,  without  social  or  family  titles  (though 
he  was  now  using  the  "  de  "),  and  who  had  as  yet 
given  no  convincing  proofs  of  talent,  not  to  say 
genius.  There  is  little  room  to  doubt  that  the 
Duchesse  became  his  very  dear  friend,  but  the 
story  is  mostly  left  to  our  imagination,  as  Balzac 
was  chivalrously  discreet  in  his  affaires  de  coeur. 
The  image  of  this  noble  dame  is  projected  upon 
many  a  creation  of  Balzac's.  Their  romance,  how 
ever,  is  not  given  to  us  in  its  fulness,  and  it  may 
not  have  overpassed  the  Platonic  stage.  Our  hero 
could  be  discreet  where  the  reputation  of  ladies 
of  rank  was  concerned.  But  the  Platonic  reserva 
tion  can  hardly  be  made  in  regard  to  Madame 
Visconti  (an  Englishwoman,  by  the  way)  whom 
the  author  drew  upon  for  his  Lady  Dudley  in  the 
"  Lily  of  the  Valley."  Balzac  declared  to  the  lady 
[106] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

whom  he  finally  married  that  his  friendship  with 
the  Visconti  was  a  proper  one.  Posterity  is  in 
clined  to  believe  that  he  perjured  himself  like  a 
gentleman. 

OUR  HERO  had  reached  the  ripe  age  of 
thirty- two  ere  he  unquestionably  "  arrived  " 
with  the  "Physiology  of  Marriage"  and  "The 
Shagreen  Skin  "  —books  which,  though  not  of  his 
very  best,  fully  justified  the  public  reception  of 
them.  But  even  this  first,  long-awaited  draught  of 
the  cordials  of  success  did  not  satisfy  Balzac;  some 
thing  else  was  lacking,  and  he  confides  to  his  sister 
that  he  despairs  of  ever  being  loved  and  under 
stood  by  the  woman  of  his  dreams,  or  of  ever  find 
ing  her,  save  in  his  heart! 

Like  the  old  painter  in  his  "  Unknown  Master 
piece,"  it  was  Balzac's  fate  to  hunger  vainly  for 
his  ideal  woman  to  the  end,  and  in  the  final  mo 
ment  of  expected  realization  to  grasp  at  a  shadow! 

But  there  were  to  be  consolations  for  him,  and 
perhaps  the  most  enviable  of  these  was  his  affair 
with  "Maria,"  which  belongs  to  1833,  Balzac 
being  then  in  his  thirty-fourth  year.  She  was  a 
delightful  girl  of  middle  class  station  who,  as  our 

[107] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

hero  himself  tells  us,  fell  to  him  like  a  flower  from 
heaven,  exacted  neither  correspondence  nor 
attentions,  and  made  only  the  sweet  condition: 
"  Love  me  a  year  and  I  will  love  you  all  my 
life!" 

Ah,  Maria! — well  had  it  been  for  the  great  man 
could  he  have  contented  himself  with  your  unsel 
fish  affection;  but  then  we  should  lack  the  tragedy 
of  Honore  de  Balzac. 

It  was  fortunate  for  literature  that  Balzac  met 
this  charming  girl  just  at  the  first  full  flowering 
of  his  genius,  as  in  all  but  one  respect  she  served 
as  a  model  for  Eugenie  Grandet,  the  most  popular 
and  beloved  of  his  female  characters.  The  few 
lines  of  dedication  prefixed  to  this  masterpiece  are 
inscribed  "To  Maria";  lovely  and  sincere  is  the 
tribute : 

"  Your  portrait  is  the  fairest  ornament  of  this 
book,  and  here  it  is  fitting  that  your  name  should 
be  set,  like  the  branch  of  box  taken  from  some 
unknown  garden  to  lie  for  a  while  in  the  holy 
water,  and  afterwards  set  by  pious  hands  above 
the  threshold,  where  the  green  spray,  ever  renewed, 
is  a  sacred  talisman  to  ward  off  all  evil  from  the 
house." 
[108] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

This  genuine,  if  illicit,  romance  ran  its  brief 
course,  and  Maria  had  her  wish;  also — an  incident 
which  romantic  persons  will  not  like  so  well — she 
bore  our  hero  a  child.  Then  we  hear  no  more  of 
her  in  the  great  man's  life-story.  But  the  thought 
of  her  gentle  love,  her  kind,  unselfish  tenderness 
remains  to  sweeten  the  story  of  that  checkered 
life  in  which  there  was  not  to  fall  another  such 
"flower  from  heaven."  Ah,  Maria!  .  .  . 

The  conventional  marriage  in  France  is  always 
a  business  arrangement,  and  it  may  be  that  the 
"  accidents "  of  love  are  less  ceremoniously 
regarded  there  than  such  things  are  among 
English-speaking  races.  At  any  rate,  Balzac  is 
allowed  to  have  begotten  four  natural  children 
(including  Maria's  daughter)  as  a  result  of  his 
casual  love  passages.  Their  history  is  lost  in  the 
obscurity  that  usually  envelops  such  unfortunates, 
and  no  explosions  of  the  paternal  genius  have 
occurred  to  betray  their  identity  to  the  French 
people. 

Balzac  had  in  his  make-up  no  little  of  the 
dandy* — it  was  one  of  his  superficial  qualities 

*Dickens,  who  presents  some  strong  points  of  likeness  to  Balzac, 
both  in  his  character  and  work,  was  also  given  to  a  loud  style  of 
dress  and  much  jewelry.  Henley  calls  him  the  "Almighty  Swell." 

[109] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

which  men  like  Oscar  Wilde  made  a  boast  of 
imitating.  There  were  periods  when  he  seemed 
anxious  to  shine  as  a  man  of  fashion  (the  dandy 
ism  of  Byron  was  still  a  living  tradition)  and, 
despite  his  rather  ungallant  figure — he  was  in 
stature  only  five  feet  two  inches,  with  a  mighty 
head  and  the  torso  of  Hercules — aimed  at  a  fop 
pish  distinction  of  dress.  We  hear  of  his  tailor, 
his  jeweller  and  his  goldsmith  being  lavishly  levied 
upon  to  "  exploit "  this  phase  of  the  great  man. 
Madame  Delphine  Gay  wrote  a  book  about  his 
famous  jewel-headed  cane,  which  figures  even 
more  memorably  in  Danton's  comic  statue  of  our 
hero.  In  his  first  flush  of  prosperity  he  set  up  a 
coach  with  a  gigantic  Jehu  and  (in  the  English 
fashion  then  reigning)  a  tiny  groom  whom  he 
called  "  Millet-seed."  He  loved  to  "  derive  "  him 
self  from  noble  ancestors  and  he  made  a  dead  set 
at  the  company  of  the  well-born.  His  duchesses 
and  countesses  seemed  as  necessary  to  his  existence 
as  to  his  art,  in  which  he  constantly  invoked  them. 
In  sum,  I  fear  it  must  be  allowed  that  our  hero 
was  a  great  deal  of  a  snob,  though  he  was  not 
offensive  in  the  English  or  Thackerayan  degree, 
and  this  phase  of  character  was  not  always  preju- 
[110] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

dicial  to  his  literary  work.  In  certain  of  his  crea 
tions  his  penchant  for  the  "  nobility  "  is  splendidly 
justified. 

This  trait  appeared  even  in  the  artist  at  work, 
but  here  it  gives  us  only  pleasure  when  we  regard 
the  sum  and  quality  of  his  achievement;  even  as 
his  boisterous  egotism  is  similarly  justified.  He 
planned  his  living  quarters  with  the  same  minute 
care  that  marks  his  description  of  the  habitations 
of  people  in  the  "  Comedy."  Greatest  care  of  all 
was  shown  in  providing  for  his  study — a  real 
sanctum  dedicate  to  the  holy  toil  of  creation. 
Perfect  quietude  was  the  first  requisite — he  seems 
to  have  dreaded  noise  as  much  as  Carlyle.  At 
his  desk  he  wore  a  white  Dominican  gown  with 
hood,  adapting  the  material  thereof  for  winter 
and  summer.  His  feet  were  shod  with  embroid 
ered  slippers,  and  his  waist  was  girt  with  a  rich 
Venetian-gold  chain  ("All  the  elegance  of  life  is 
about  the  waist,"  he  writes  somewhere),  to  which 
were  suspended  a  pair  of  scissors,  a  paper-knife 
and  a  gold  pen-knife,  all  beautifully  carved.  His 
living  and  working  quarters — and  this  refers  to 
his  several  homes — were  always  furnished  in  char 
acteristic  taste  and  usually  at  a  cost  that  goes  far 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

to  explain  his  constant  financial  embarrassments. 
His  regular  habit  was  to  go  to  bed  at  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening  and  rise  at  midnight  to  his  work; 
but  whatever  his  working  hours,  he  wrote  by 
candlelight,  heavy  curtains  always  excluding  the 
daylight  from  his  study.  When  absorbed  in  the 
writing  of  a  book,  his  isolation  was  more  than 
monastic;  he  read  no  letters  and  received  no 
callers,  sometimes  lengthening  the  creative  effort 
during  a  stretch  of  eighteen  hours.  But  the  great 
toiler's  claustration  was  not  absolute  even  at  such 
times,  though  he  wished  that  the  world  might 
so  believe:  not  infrequently  it  was  broken  by  the 
visits  of  the  Beloved.  A  secret  door  and  staircase 
admitted  her  at  the  novelist's  house  in  the  Rue 
Cassini.  Thus  Balzac  both  lived  and  wrote  his 
romances — a  perilous  duality  of  existence  which 
few  writers  have  attempted  with  success.  In  the 
case  of  Balzac  it  was  to  have  a  tragic  conclusion 
that  is  without  a  rival  in  the  creations  of  his  art. 

ENTER  NOW  UEtrangere  (The  Stranger), 
the  woman  who  was  to  dominate  the  rest  of 
Balzac's  life,  that  is  to  say,  the  greater  part  of 
his  literary  career.    She  was  the  Countess  Evelina 
[112] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

Hanska,  wife  of  a  Polish  nobleman  living  in  the 
Ukraine.  First  attracted  to  Balzac  by  his  studies 
of  women,  she  sought  to  know  him  through  a 
correspondence  in  which  she  for  a  time  veiled  her 
identity.  The  story  of  their  relations  culminating 
sixteen  years  afterward  in  marriage,  is  known  to 
all  readers  of  the  novelist's  Letters.  He  wrote  to 
her  almost  daily  for  many  years,  pouring  forth 
all  his  plans,  struggles,  hopes,  ambitions  with  much 
of  the  fiery  ardour  which  he  gave  to  his  creative 
work.  She  had  borne  four  children  to  the  hus 
band  who  was  twenty-five  years  her  senior,  but  of 
these  only  one,  a  daughter,  survived.  Indifference 
toward  her  noble  consort  was  a  prime  motive  in 
drawing  her  to  Balzac,  and  very  early  in  their 
correspondence  she  permitted  the  latter  to  divine 
her  real  feelings.  On  the  lovers  first  meeting  in 
Switzerland,  the  Count  showed  himself  as  incon 
venient  as  the  husband  is  apt  to  be  in  such  affairs. 
"Alas!"  wrote  Balzac  to  his  sister — "he  did  not 
quit  us  during  five  days  for  a  single  second.  He 
went  from  his  wife's  skirts  to  my  waistcoat.  And 
Neufchatel  is  a  small  town  where  a  woman,  an 
illustrious  foreigner,  cannot  take  a  step  without 
being  seen.  Constraint  doesn't  suit  me ! " 

[113] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

He  was  transported  with  his  new  affinity  and 
believed  that  he  had  found  at  last  the  woman  of 
his  dreams.  "  I  am  happy,  very  happy,"  he  con 
fesses  to  his  dear  Laure,  the  fond  sister  whose 
love  condoned  all  his  errors.  "  She  is  twenty- 
seven,  has  most  beautiful  black  hair,  the  smooth 
and  deliciously  fine  skin  of  brunettes,  a  lovely  little 
hand,  and  is  naive  and  imprudent  to  the  point 
of  embracing  me  before  every  one.  I  say 
nothing  about  her  great  wealth.  What  is  it  in 
comparison  with  beauty?  I  am  intoxicated  with 
love!" 

Such  was  the  beginning  of  this  celebrated 
romance,  auspicious  enough  in  spite  of  its  illicit 
conditions,  and  bearing  no  hint  of  the  tragic  con 
clusion.  But  the  close  student  of  Balzac  will  be 
halted  at  once  by  this  first  reference  to  Madame 
Hanska's  wealth.  The  reticence  of  the  woman, 
and  the  loss  or  destruction  of  all  her  letters  to 
Balzac  (which  she  appears  to  have  decreed  her 
self),  leave  the  story  perplexed  beyond  hope  of 
a  final  and  authentic  explanation.  But  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  the  question  of  money,  which 
constantly  occupied  the  actual  and  imaginative 
existence  of  the  novelist,  furnishes  the  clue  to  the 
[114] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

catastrophe.  The  famous  pair  who  had  loved  each 
other  so  long  and  so  ardently,  in  spite  of  moral 
and  legal  hindrances,  were  not  to  find  happiness 
in  marriage.  They  had  mutually  deceived  each 
other.  Madame  Hanska  was  less  rich  than  she 
had  allowed  Balzac  to  believe  and  reckon  upon; 
on  the  other  hand,  his  debts  were  far  heavier  than 
he  had  confessed  to  her.  Balzac  was  always  in 
capable  of  strictly  envisaging  his  financial  position, 
as  he  habitually  mistook  the  riches  of  his  mind  for 
available  assets.  Moreover,  the  flower  of  their 
youth  was  behind  them  and  of  their  love  as  well, 
for  the  marriage  of  the  church  had  nothing  to 
give  these  lovers.  They  who  have  eaten  their  cake 
may  not  have  it. 

But  they  had  loved  well,  and  it  is  the  romantic 
side  of  their  story  that  we  are  concerned  with.  In 
spite  of  the  husband's  jealous  vigilance  they  were 
able  to  correspond  and  even  to  meet  at  infrequent 
intervals;  when  the  good  man  went  off  the  job, 
some  half-dozen  years  after  their  first  meeting, 
there  was  no  more  restraint  than  the  lady's  social 
position  demanded.  Balzac  now  passed  frequent 
holidays  with  her,  and  she  visited  him  in  Paris; 
one  visit  being  attended  by  an  accident  *  that 

C 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

leaves  no  question  of  the  extreme  intimacy  of 
their  relations.  It  is  true,  however,  that  they 
had  undergone  a  long  Platonic  probation,  and  to 
this  Balzac  alludes  in  a  letter  urging  Madame 
Hanska  to  fix  the  date  of  their  marriage. 
Writing  to  her  on  his  birthday,  he  adds 
a  prayer  humorously  addressed  to  his  patron 
saint: 

"  O  great  Saint  Honore,  thou  to  whom  is  dedi 
cated  a  street  in  Paris  at  once  so  beautiful  and  so 
ugly  .  .  .  ordain  that  I  may  be  no  more  a  bache 
lor,  by  the  decree  of  the  mayor  or  the  Consul  of 
France;  for  thou  knowest  that  I  have  been  spir 
itually  married  for  nigh  on  eleven  years.  These 
last  fifteen  years  I  have  lived  a  martyr's  life.  God 
sent  me  an  angel  in  1833.  May  this  angel  never 
quit  me  again  till  death!  I  have  lived  by  my 
writing.  Let  me  live  a  little  by  love!  Take  care 
of  her  rather  than  of  me,  for  I  would  fain  give  her 
all,  even  to  my  portion  in  heaven.  And  especially, 
let  us  soon  be  happy.  Ave,  Eva! " 

This  was  in  1843,  and  he  had  to  wait  seven 
years  longer.  All  his  biographers  agree  that  the 

*  There  is  little  doubt  that  Madame  Hanska  was  prematurely 
confined  at  Balzac's  house  in  Passy,  a  suburb  of  Paris,  August, 
1845. 

[116] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

difficile,  indeed  somewhat  perverse,  coquetry  of 
Madame  Hanska  on  the  marriage  question,  and 
the  wearisome  probation  to  which  she  subjected 
him,  were  potent  factors  in  wrecking  Balzac's 
health  and  causing  his  untimely  death. 

Beware  the  woman  who  tastes  a  malign  pleasure 
in  making  you  wait  and  stints  the  generosity  of 
love;  she  is  apt  to  be  your  fate  and  your  undoing! 

T3ALZAC  has  confessed  that  he  could  do 
-*"*  nothing  without  the  inspiration  of  female  at 
tachment: — to  his  famous  dictum  on  chastity 
he  added  the  permission  to  write  love  letters  as 
forming  an  author's  style!  It  is  almost  incredible 
howr  much  he  gave  of  himself  in  this  way,  while 
keeping  up  a  rate  of  literary  production  that 
averaged  four  books  for  every  year  of  his  work 
ing  life.  He  sought  the  sympathy  of  women  as 
an  aid  to  his  work — as  the  spring  which  released 
the  creative  faculties  and  fructified  his  dreams. 
To  Madame  Hanska  he  avows — and  we  need  not 
regard  this  as  unmixed  flattery:  c  The  desire  to 
see  you  makes  me  invent  things  that  do  not  ordi 
narily  come  into  my  head.  It's  not  only  cour 
age  you  give  me  to  support  the  difficulties 

[117] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

of  life;   you  give  me   also  talent — at   any   rate, 
facility." 

His  Eve  was  often  jealous,  owing  to  rumours 
that  occasionally  reached  her  from  Paris,  and  she 
failed  to  attach  due  weight  to  his  vaunted  dogma 
of  chastity,  which  he  exploits  in  his  letters,  even 
to  the  prejudice  of  such  a  contemporary  as  Victor 
Hugo.*  But  she  probably  did  not  expect  him  to 
be  a  St.  Anthony,  from  the  conditions  of  his  life 
and  temperament,  and  she  had  brains  enough  to 
discern  the  value  of  the  man  who  wrote  such  won 
derful  letters  for  her  amusement.  And  then 
Balzac  knew  how  to  appease  her  wrath,  if  not  to 
quiet  her  suspicions.  He  had  the  Frenchman's 
knack  of  humbling  himself  before  the  woman  he 
desired  to  please,  without  any  real  self -derogation ; 
and  he  could  flatter  his  proud  mistress  in  such 
lyrical  terms  as  these: 

"Adieu,  loved  friend,  to  whom  I  belong  like  the 
sound  to  the  bell,  the  dog  to  his  master,  the  artist 
to  his  ideal,  prayer  to  God,  pleasure  to  cause, 
colour  to  the  painter,  life  to  the  sun.  Love  me, 

*"Much  of  his  (Hugo's)  force,  value  and  quality  he  has  lost 
by  the  life  he  leads,  having  overdone  his  devotion  to  Venus." 
Balzac  to  Madame  Hanska. 

[118] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

for  I  need  your  affection,  so  vivifying,  so  agree 
able,  so  celestial,  so  ideally  good,  of  such  sweet 
dominance,  and  so  constantly  vibrating!" 

Balzac  was  united  to  his  Eve  in  March,  1850. 
His  health  was  now  broken  by  his  enormous  liter 
ary  labours,  and  the  lady  had  been  won  tardily  to 
give  her  consent;  it  is  difficult  not  to  believe  that 
she  foresaw  the  dissensions  at  hand.  The  bride 
groom,  however,  was  almost  wild  with  delight, 
and  he  fancied  that  he  had  never  known  happi 
ness  before.  "  I  have  had  no  flowery  spring,"  he 
wrote  to  his  friend,  Madame  Carraud,  "  but  I 
shall  have  the  most  brilliant  of  summers,  the  mild 
est  of  autumns." 

Toward  the  end  of  May  the  wedded  pair  ar 
rived  in  Paris  (the  marriage  had  taken  place  on 
the  bride's  estate  in  Poland),  and  at  evening  drove 
to  the  fine  mansion  which  Balzac  had  purchased 
and  fitted  up  with  splendid  furniture,  rare  and 
costly  works  of  art,  etc.  The  house  was  dark,  to 
their  surprise  and  annoyance,  and  they  had  great 
trouble  forcing  an  entrance  with  the  aid  of  some 
strangers.  A  more  painful  shock  awaited  them : — 
the  valet  left  in  charge  had  gone  mad,  and  was 

[119] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

discovered  spilling  the  wine  and  wrecking  the  fur 
niture.  A  portentous  home-coming! 

Ill  in  body  and  sick  at  heart,  for  he  was  already 
estranged  from  his  wife,  Balzac  took  to  his  bed 
of  the  malady  which  ended  his  life  in  August  of 
that  year  (1850).  The  story  of  his  pleading  with 
the  doctor  for  one  year's  grace  of  life  in  order  that 
he  might  put  the  finishing  touches  to  his  literary 
testament — then  for  six  months — six  weeks — six 
days,  and  even  six  hours,  may  not  be  literally 
exact,  but  it  persists  as  characteristic  of  the  un 
daunted  artist.  The  Countess  remained  in  her 
apartments  while  he  was  dying  alone,  suffering 
terribly  and  much  disfigured  by  dropsy;  Victor 
Hugo,  who  called  at  the  house  and  found  the  great 
man  in  his  agony,  has  so  witnessed.  One  is  divided 
between  pity  for  the  giant  stricken  down  in  the 
midst  of  his  creative  labours  and  sorrow  for  the 
grim  ending  of  the  romance  which  had  filled  his 
heart  during  so  many  years.  It  seems  such  a  trag 
edy  as  only  he  could  have  depicted. 

The  noble  widow  paid  off  Balzac's  debts  to  the 
last  centime  and  settled  a  comfortable  annuity 
upon  his  mother.  She  vouchsafed  no  explanation 
of  the  estrangement  and  nothing  on  her  part  was 
[120] 


BALZAC  THE  LOVER 

ever  divulged.  One  is  inclined  to  admire  her 
proud  silence,  but  to  this  hour  the  world  blames 
her,  mainly  on  the  ground  that  after  Balzac's 
death  she  took  a  lover  in  the  artist,  Jean  Gigoux, 
who  painted  a  well-known  portrait  of  her.  One 
studies  the  picture  long,  seeking  to  trace  in  the 
proud  and  noble  beauty  a  clue  to  the  soul  of  the 
woman  who  broke  the  heart  of  Balzac. 

O  Eve!  O  woman! — must  thy  destiny  be  al 
ways  to  betray?  .  .  . 

Balzac's  widow  survived  him  thirty  years,  dy 
ing  in  1882.  It  must  be  set  down  to  her  credit 
that  she  wished  to  convert  their  fine  house,  the 
Hotel  de  Beau j on,  into  a  permanent  memorial  of 
the  author,  and  began  some  necessary  alterations 
writh  this  end  in  view.  On  her  death,  however, 
the  property  was  purchased  by  the  Baroness  Salo 
mon  de  Rothschild,  who  demolished  the  house  in 
order  to  incorporate  the  ground  site  with  her  own 
gardens.  An  ironic  detail  that  will  not  fail  to 
impress  the  attentive  reader  of  Balzac.  Money 
has  the  last  word  in  his  legend! 

And  voila,  a  story  after  the  Master's  own  heart. 
Is  it  not  somewhere  written  in  the  "  Comedy"? 

[121] 


TWO 

BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

IN  THE  preceding  paper  critical  questions 
would  have  been  improper  and  were,  therefore, 
avoided;  but  as  we  had  much  to  say  on  Balzac's  re 
lations  with  women  as  influencing  and  colouring 
his  art,  I  wish  now  to  note  his  attitude  toward  his 
creations  generally.  And  this  the  more  that  I 
believe  an  injustice  is  done  him  by  the  run  of 
English  critics  who  maintain  that  he  has  over- 
stressed  the  evil  in  human  nature  and  thereby 
flawed  the  integrity  of  his  work.  Even  Mr.  Saints- 
bury,  who  has  done  so  much  for  the  English  un 
derstanding  of  Balzac,  is  not  without  qualms  and 
doubts  on  this  score ;  for  the  Englishman  is  a  mor 
alist  before  anything  else,  and  yet  he  will  not 
hesitate  to  judge  a  Frenchman  to  whom  art  was 
the  supreme  consideration! 

I  am  of  George  Moore's  opinion,  that  Balzac's 
achievement  as  a  whole  is  scarcely  inferior  to  any 
work  of  the  human  mind.  I  believe  that  in  the 
[  122  1 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

creation  of  veritable  human  types,  in  the  mastery 
of  passion,  synthetic  grasp  of  life,  and  profound 
divination  of  motive,  with  the  ability  to  exhibit 
these  powers  and  faculties  in  a  drama  of  com 
pelling  interest  and  original  invention,  which  offers 
the  unexpected  turns  of  reality  itself — Balzac  has 
no  equal  among  the  novelists  of  the  world. 

To  consider  only  our  own  literature  and  the 
giants  thereof — Scott,  Dickens  and  Thackeray— 
the  fame  of  the  first-named  is  so  greatly  dimin 
ished  and  his  books  are  so  generally  neglected  to 
day  that  it  seems  needless  to  urge  the  comparison. 
Whatever  be  the  merits  of  Scott's  works — and 
no  books  were  in  their  time  more  famous  or  more 
praised — they  seem  to  lack  the  principle  of  life 
which  keeps  the  world  ever  freshly  interested  in 
Balzac.  As  for  Dickens  or  Thackeray,  these  great 
writers  amuse  us  with  their  humour  and  satire,  or 
touch  us  with  pathos,  or  delight  us  with  sketches 
of  character,  throughout  their  numerous  produc 
tions.  But  will  any  competent  critic  pretend  that 
in  the  stern  business  of  reproducing  life  in  its  po 
tential  reality  and  passion  in  its  hidden  play — of 
making  men  and  women  whose  destinies  thrill  us 
like  those  of  people  we  have  known,  and  even  more, 

[123] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

for  such  art  transcends  our  actual  experience  while 
borrowing  its  verity  therefrom — will  any  good 
critic  assert  that  the  achievement  of  Balzac  in  this 
wise  has  been  fairly  matched  by  either  Thackeray 
or  Dickens?  We  do  not  expect  that  Taine,  a 
Frenchman,  would  allow  it,  but  even  the  thor 
oughly  English  Mr.  Saintsbury  forbears  to  make 
this  claim.  In  point  of  strict,  uncomplimentary 
fact,  the  work  of  the  famous  Englishmen  named, 
as  compared  with  that  of  Balzac,  might  be  ex 
pressed  in  one  of  Dickens's  titles,  "  The  Lazy  Tour 
of  Two  Idle  Apprentices  ";  and  this  is  said  by  one 
who  is  proud  to  call  himself  their  lifelong  lover 
and  admirer!  Neither  of  these  admirable  writers 
was  dominated  by  the  artistic  idea  in  a  degree  at 
all  comparable  with  Balzac,  nor  has  either  of  them 
brought  to  the  making  of  a  novel  anything  like 
the  amount  of  brains  which  the  Frenchman  put 
into  his  greater  books.  Please  observe  that  I 
mean  brains — intellectual  and  creative  force  rather 
than  literary  grace  or  merit  of  any  sort  palliative 
of  artistic  shortcoming  or  inability  to  hit  the  mark. 
Both  Dickens  and  Thackeray  are  not  seldom  de 
lightful  in  their  conceded  failures.  What  charm 
ing  digressions  in  the  "  Philip,"  yes,  even  in  the 
[124] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

more  formidable  '  Virginians,"  and  where  is 
Dickens  more  savourously  himself  than  in  parts 
of  "  Little  Dorrit  "  and  "  Our  Mutual  Friend," 
both  books  that  defy  artistic  classification? 

The  difference  between  the  French  master  and 
these  great  English  writers  is  mainly  an  artistic 
one.  They  have  many  fine  qualities  and  literary 
merits,  but  strictly  speaking,  they  never  have  a 
story — well,  let  us  say,  almost  never.  Dickens  at 
least  was  on  the  way  to  achieving  it.  Was  it  in 
dolence  or  incapacity  or  want  of  the  artistic  in 
stinct  that  caused  their  failure?  I  cannot  say, 
and  the  point  may  be  indifferent  to  English 
readers,  since  Thackeray's  style  and  Dickens's 
humour  are  readily  accepted  in  lieu  of  a  story. 
It  is  otherwise  with  Balzac,  to  whom  creation  and 
construction  were  all,  who  imposed  a  rule  of  ar 
tistic  brevity  upon  himself,  and  thought  out  his 
novel  completely  before  sketching  the  first  chap 
ter.  Xearly  always  he  has  a  good  story  and  not 
seldom  a  great  one — the  mechanism  of  plot,  the 
interplay  of  passion  and  all  human  motives  merely 
regarded.  Yet  Balzac  is  not  weak  or  inferior  in 
other  respects  because  of  his  cunning  structure,  his 
deep-laid  architectonics.  Each  story  is  informed 

[125] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

with  a  vital  thought  and  philosophy  as  necessary 
to  it  as  air  to  the  lungs.  It  is  doubtful  if  any 
writer  of  fiction  ever  possessed  the  same  capacity 
for  abstract  thought,  united  with  a  like  power  to 
reproduce  the  actual  drama  of  life. 

OSCAR  WILDE  remarked  (after  Baude 
laire)  that  even  the  servants  in  Balzac's 
novels  have  genius,  and  it  is  true  that  his  char 
acters  generally  are  by  this  trait  unmatched  in 
modern  fiction;  that  is  to  say,  their  creator  has 
charged  them  with  his  own  force  and  fire.  But 
while  they  possess  this  uncommon  life,  they  are 
not  all  of  a  piece,  so  to  say,  but  cunningly  dif 
ferentiated;  no  two  of  his  rascals  or  honest  folk, 
though  of  similar  type,  are  the  same  in  essence. 
Now  as  there  are  about  two  thousand  living 
people  in  the  "  Comedy,"  the  simple  fact  just 
stated  establishes  the  immense  creative  power  of 
Balzac. 

There  is  yet  another  way  of  coming  at  the  ques 
tion  of  his  supremacy,  which  idea  (if  the  reader 
please  !)is  original  with  the  present  humble  critic. 
When  Balzac  prepares  a  contest  or  an  intrigue 
among  his  people,  he  arms  both  sides  with  such 
[126] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

resources  of  talent  and  courage,  of  resolution  and 
finesse,  of  check  and  countercheck,  that  the  reader 
is  transported  as  before  a  living  drama.  Perhaps 
the  biggest  novelist  you  can  think  of  could  take  one 
side  of  a  Balzacian  situation  or  duel  of  this  kind, 
but  the  effort  would  surely  exhaust  him.  Alone 
the  Master  can  handle  both !  Observe,  I  make  the 
point  that  there  is  very  much  more  than  literature 
in  the  novels  of  Balzac.  There  have  been  some 
infertile  stylists  who  thought  they  could  re-write 
Balzac's  books  to  their  betterment,  but  literary 
graces  are  of  small  value  compared  to  the  creative 
content  of  the  "  Human  Comedy."  The  man  who 
carried  a  world  in  his  brain  may  be  indulged  now 
and  then  in  a  slight  lapse  or  obscurity — we 
have  had  to  pardon  a  great  deal  more  even  to 
Shakespeare! 

For  my  part  I  find  every  species  of  literary 
style  and  merit  in  Balzac,  but  the  fiery  fugue  of 
his  invention,  the  constant  marvel  of  his  divining 
genius  always  draws  me  from  the  form  to  the  sub 
stance,  even  if  I  read  him  in  French.  To  the  giant 
labouring  at  the  furnace  of  creation,  to  the  great 
artist  evoking  and  individualizing  a  vast  multitude 
of  souls  and  finding  for  them  appropriate  des- 

[127] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

tinies,  the  matter  of  literary  form  seemed  less  ex 
igent  no  doubt  than  it  did  and  does  to  writers 
whose  "  style  "  is  all  their  capital.  In  art  there 
is  room  for  a  Balzac  as  well  as  a  Bourget,  but  we 
must  not  lose  sight  of  the  major  values.  Like 
Arthur  Symons,  I  can  say  that  Balzac's  style 
seems  always  adequate  to  me — when  the  wonder 
of  his  creative  power  gives  me  leave  to  think  of 
it.  The  question,  however,  is  one  of  little  or  no 
significance  to  the  English  reader  who  can  obtain 
our  author  in  a  good  translation. 

Something  was  said  in  the  previous  paper  in 
regard  to  the  working  habits  of  Balzac,  and 
especially  as  to  the  seclusion  and  quiet,  the 
almost  cloistral  freedom  from  interruption  and 
distraction  with  which  he  guarded  his  creative 
task.  In  this  aspect  no  writer  of  whom  we  have 
knowledge  interests  us  so  much,  for  the  reason 
that  Balzac's  labours  were  as  heroic  as  his  genius 
was  undoubted.  Now  in  the  country,  now  in 
the  heart  of  Paris  he  raised  his  Ivory  Tower, 
cutting  himself  off  from  society  in  order  to  see 
it  with  the  #-ray  of  imagination.  He  worked  as 
if  in  a  hallucination  or  creative  trance,  jealously 
limiting  his  hours  of  sleep,  desisting  only  from 
[128] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

complete  exhaustion.  At  all  times  he  seemed  to 
be  persuaded  of  the  actual  existence  of  his  char 
acters.  To  Jules  Sandeau,  speaking  of  his  sister's 
illness,  he  replied  with  an  apparent  lack  of  feeling: 
"  Let  us  come  back  to  reality — let  us  talk  of 
Eugenie  Grandet" 

This  is  proof,  not  of  his  selfishness  (as  has  been 
asserted)  but  of  his  complete  absorption  in  the 
imaginative  world.  The  clairvoyant  always  domi 
nated  in  Balzac,  and  herein  I  think  is  the  supreme 
attraction  of  his  work. 

There  have  been  men  of  great  literary  or  artistic 
genius  who  were  idle  or  reluctant  or  indifferent 
workers ;  the  world  is  in  the  habit  of  making  apol 
ogy  for  them,  feeling  that  they  could  have  done 
better  had  they  tried.  Balzac  never  asked  this 
kind  of  indulgence  for  himself  and  he  would  not 
hear  of  it  for  others.  His  immense  interest  for 
us  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  was  at  once  a  great  origi 
nal  genius  and  an  amazing,  almost  unrivalled, 
worker. 

Let  us  notice  his  own  theories  of  work  and  in 
spiration;  he  has  set  them  forth  without  reserve  in 
"  Cousine  Bette,"  and  as  an  artistic  credo  there  is 
nothing  to  compare  with  them.  This  little  manual 

[129] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

of  Balzac's  artistic  faith  and  practice  is  contained 
within  two  or  three  pages — golden  maxims  to  those 
who  are  capable  of  receiving  and  profiting  by 
them.  For  the  young  artist  and  literary  aspirant 
I  take  these  counsels  of  Balzac  to  be  the  most 
valuable  ever  written;  the  words  of  a  man  for 
whom  genius  had  done  much,  but  who  regarded 
the  richest  endowments  of  mind  and  spirit  as 
worthless  without  constant  labour  and  application. 
In  truth,  since  his  day,  the  world  has  had  less 
patience  than  formerly  with  the  gifted  idler  or 
faineant  in  art,  and  it  now  demands  production 
as  the  proof  of  genius. 

To  begin  with,  Courage  is  the  word!  accord 
ing  to  Balzac.  I  summarize: 

'  Intellectual  work,  labour  in  the  upper  regions 
of  mental  effort,  is  one  of  the  grandest  achieve 
ments  of  man.  That  which  deserves  real  glory 
in  Art — for  by  Art  we  must  understand  every 
creation  of  the  mind — is  courage  above  all  things, 
a  sort  of  courage  of  which  the  vulgar  have  no 
conception. 

:<  Perpetual  work  is  the  Law  of  Art,  as  it  is  the 
law  of  life,  for  Art  is  idealized  creation.  Hence 
great  artists  and  poets  wait  neither  for  commis- 
[130] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

sions  nor  purchasers.  They  are  constantly  creat 
ing — to-day,  to-morrow,  always.  The  result  is  the 
habit  of  work,  the  unfailing  apprehension  of  the 
difficulties  which  keep  them  in  close  intercourse 
with  the  Muse  and  her  productive  forces.  Canova 
lived  in  his  studio,  as  Voltaire  lived  in  his  study; 
so  must  Homer  and  Phidias  have  lived. 

"  To  nurse,  to  dream,  to  conceive  of  fine  works 
is  a  delightful  occupation — it  is  like  smoking  en 
chanted  cigarettes.  The  work  then  floats  in  all  the 
grace  of  infancy,  in  the  wild  joy  of  conception. 
.  .  .  But  gestation,  fruition,  the  laborious  rear 
ing  of  the  offspring,  putting  it  to  bed  every  night 
full  fed  with  milk,  embracing  it  anew  every  morn 
ing  with  the  inexhaustible  affection  of  a  mother's 
heart,  licking  it  clean,  dressing  it  a  hundred  times 
in  the  richest  garb  only  to  be  instantly  destroyed; 
then  never  to  be  cast  down  at  the  convulsions  of 
this  headlong  life  till  the  living  masterpiece  is 
perfected  which  in  sculpture  speaks  to  every  eye, 
in  literature  to  every  intellect,  in  painting  to  every 
memory,  in  music  to  every  heart !  This  is  the  task 
of  execution. 

"  The  habit  of  creativeness,  the  indefatigable 
love  of  motherhood  which  makes  a  mother — that 
miracle  of  nature  which  Raphael  so  well  under 
stood — the  maternity  of  the  brain,  in  short,  so  dif 
ficult  to  develop,  is  lost  with  prodigious  ease. 

[131] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

"  Inspiration  is  the  opportunity  of  genius.  She 
does  not  indeed  dance  on  the  razor's  edge;  she  is 
in  the  air  and  flies  away  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
crow;  she  wears  no  scarf  by  which  the  poet  can 
clutch  her;  her  hair  is  a  flame;  she  vanishes  like 
the  lovely  rose  and  the  white  flamingo — the  sports 
man's  despair." 

And  hearken  to  this,  O  you  writers  and  artists 
of  little  courage,  who  content  yourselves  with  an 
elegant  dilettanteism — you  faint-hearted  lovers 
who  fear  to  come  to  close  grips  with  the  Muse! 

:( If  the  artist  does  not  throw  himself  into  his 
work  as  Curtius  sprang  into  the  gulf,  as  a  soldier 
leads  a  forlorn  hope  without  a  moment's  thought, 
and  if  when  he  is  in  the  crater  he  does  not  dig  on 
as  a  miner  does  when  the  earth  has  fallen  in  on 
him;  if  he  contemplates  the  difficulties  before  him 
instead  of  conquering  them  one  by  one,  like  the 
lovers  in  fairy  tales,  who  to  win  their  princesses 
overcome  ever-new  enchantments — the  work  re 
mains  incomplete;  it  perishes  in  the  studio  where 
creativeness  becomes  impossible,  and  the  artist 
looks  on  at  the  suicide  of  his  own  talent." 


[132] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

rpHESE  THEORIES  are  exemplified  by 
A  the  sculptor  Steinbock  ("  Cousine  Bette  "), 
gifted,  but  without  will  or  courage  or  persistence, 
who  talked  admirably  about  art  and  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  maintained  his  reputation  as  a  great 
artist  by  his  powers  of  conversation  and  criticism. 
Balzac  calls  such  men  "  half-artists  "  and  admits 
that  they  even  seem  superior  to  the  true  artists, 
who  are  taxed  with  conceit,  selfishness,  contempt 
for  the  laws  of  society.  But  he  adds,  great  men 
are  the  slaves  of  their  work. 

In  point  of  richness  and  fertility  of  ideas  Balzac 
has  no  peer  among  writers  of  fiction;  he  pours 
them  forth  in  all  his  books,  and  the  stream  rarely 
shows  a  falling  off,  but  seems  always  at  the  fulL 
This  inexhaustible  fecundity  of  thought  is,  I  think, 
peculiar  to  him.  True,  it  tempts  him  to  many  a 
digression  which  in  such  a  writer,  say,  as  Walter 
Scott,  one  would  skip  sans  apology.  But  some  of 
Balzac's  richest  ore  is  to  be  found  in  his  excur 
sions  from  the  main  theme.  I  need  instance  only 
the  famous  chapter  on  the  occult  sciences  in 
"  Cousin  Pons,"  the  episode  of  the  brothers 

[133] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

Ruggieri  in  "  Catherine  de'  Medici,"  and  the 
matchless  chronicle  of  Napoleon  in  the  "  Country 
Doctor."  .  .  . 

Was  there  ever  a  man  so  enormously  interested 
in  life — for  whom  no  subject  was  too  great  or  too 
small?  Religion,  politics,  government,  law,  medi 
cine,  economics,  mesmerism,  astrology,  second- 
sight,  alchemy,  criminology — this  is  to  name  but 
a  few  of  the  subjects  he  has  touched,  and  memor 
ably  touched,  in  his  books.  Some  of  his  penetrat 
ing  thoughts  have  since  his  time  fructified  in  the 
domain  of  occult  science;  the  charlatanism  of 
which  he  was  accused  by  certain  critics,  on  account 
of  his  interest  in  the  "  forbidden  sciences  "  and  his 
partiality  for  treating  of  these  in  his  books,  is  now 
judged  to  have  been  a  legitimate  exercise  of  his 
great  powers.  It  is  true  that  some  of  his  "  pet 
notions "  have  been  hardly  dealt  with  since  his 
day,  and  as  a  social  prophet  he  failed  to  reckon 
sufficiently  with  forces  that  are  now  big  with  des 
tiny  in  his  own  France.  Balzac  was  in  truth  far 
from  infallible — a  genius  constantly  in  eruption  is 
bound  to  throw  off  much  scoriae  for  which  the 
world  has  no  use.  But  that  he  is  always  pregnant, 
suggestive,  interesting,  who  will  deny,  or  that  his 
[134] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

idiosyncrasy  makes  up  for  his  worst  blunders  and 
least  attractive  "  manias  "? 

Of  the  debt  which  writers  since  his  time  have  con 
tracted  toward  Balzac,  it  is  needless  to  say  much; 
no  worker  in  fiction  has  escaped  his  influence.  He 
is  the  founder  of  the  modern  novel  as  he  remains 
its  greatest  master;  later  writers  have  modified  his 
methods,  but  all  have  learned  from  him  and  ap 
propriated  without  scruple. 

George  Moore  remarks  that  Maupassant  merely 
cut  him  up  into  walking  sticks!  Daudet  and 
others  have  made  such  use  of  the  "  Comedy  "  as 
their  abilities  or  their  limitations  permitted;  many 
a  pretentious  structure  has  been  raised  of  materials 
borrowed  from  the  Balzacian  pyramid.  Among 
English  writers  of  high  rank,  Thackeray  is  his 
greatest  debtor,  having  indeed  learned  of  the 
French  master  some  of  the  best  lessons  of  his 
art.  Even  Dickens's  debt  is  large,  and  it  is  worth 
noting  that  with  more  generosity  than  the  author  of 
"  Vanity  Fair,"  he  has  acknowledged  the  suprem 
acy  of  Balzac.  Coming  down  to  our  time,  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  was  an  unwearied  student  of 
Balzac  and  a  cordial  appreciator  of  his  genius; 
Mr.  Saintsbury  allows  that  this  ingenious  and  ad- 

[135] 


.PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

mired  writer  owed  to  Balzac  some  of  his  happiest 
conceptions.  In  fine,  the  great  work  of  the 
Frenchman  has  been  as  a  quarry  to  two  genera 
tions  of  industrious  artists — and  artisans! 

A  SERIOUS  charge  against  Balzac  is  that  he 
-**•  has  libelled  human  nature,  representing  its 
evil  possibilities  by  types  of  character  that  are  ab 
horrent  to  the  general  conscience  and  not  justifiable 
by  the  canons  of  Art.  In  other  words,  it  is  held 
that  Balzac  has  no  right  to  introduce  us  to 
such  people  as  Hulot  and  Bette,  the  Marneffes, 
Philippe  Bridau,  Flore  Brazier,  et  al.:  their  de 
pravity  is  overdrawn  and,  in  any  event,  it  is  not  fit 
for  our  eyes  or  nostrils.  This,  of  course,  is  rather 
the  English  than  the  French  position — (though  it 
is  not  without  a  strong  voicing  in  France,  where 
the  virtuous  bourgeoisie  know  little  more  of  our  au 
thor  than  Eugenie  Grandet  and  Ursule  Mirouet). 
English  sentiment  requires  a  compromise  in  deal 
ing  with  such  specimens  of  human  baseness  and 
perversity,  which  was  no  part  of  Balzac's  artistic 
method.  His  practice  may  have  limited  his  popu 
larity — it  will  always  limit  his  acceptance  among 
English  readers — but  it  affirms  his  greatness  as 
[136] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

a  master  painter  of  life.  His  own  words  on  this 
point  are  memorable.  When  his  sister  remon 
strated  with  him  in  regard  to  his  evil  characters, 
urging  him  to  modify  them  or  turn  them  to  better 
courses,  he  replied:  "  They  can't  change,  my  dear. 
They  are  fathomers  of  abysses;  but  they  will  be 
able  to  guide  others.  The  wisest  persons  are  not 
always  the  best  pilots.  It's  not  my  fault.  I 
haven't  invented  human  nature.  I  observe  it,  in 
past  and  present;  and  I  try  to  depict  it  as  it  is. 
Impostures  in  this  kind  persuade  no  one." 

Again,  if  during  the  serial  publication  of  a  story 
he  were  entreated  to  save  some  guilty  one  or  black 
sheep  among  his  creations — the  sentimental  public 
being  much  given  to  such  appeals — he  would  ex 
claim:  "  Don't  bother  me.  Truth  above  all.  Those 
people  have  no  backbone.  What  happens  to  them 
is  inevitable.  So  much  the  worse  for  them  ! " 

This  is  somewhat  different  from  the  legend 
which  represents  Dickens  as  letting  the  sentimen 
tal  public  decide  the  fate  of  his  characters. 

"  Cousine  Bette  "  is  a  noxious  dose  even  for  the 
fanatic  Balzacian,  and  in  truth  this  book  lacks 
moral  beauty  to  a  point  of  being  almost  pathologi 
cal — on  first  reading  it,  I  thought  myself  wander- 

[137] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

ing  through  the  streets  of  Hell!  Nevertheless,  the 
art  of  the  book  is  as  great  as  it  is  terrible,  and  Mr. 
Saintsbury  is  one  English  critic  who  concedes  the 
fact,  ranking  it  with  the  greatest  parts  of  the 
"  Comedy."  No  doubt  it  is  his  English  patriotism 
which  inclines  him  to  prefer  Becky  Sharp  to  Va 
lerie  Marneffe,  but  we  need  not  forget  that  the 
latter  "  flower  of  evil "  has  even  a  more  doughty 
champion  in  Taine.  Valerie  is  in  truth  one  of  the 
most  finished  characters  of  Balzac;  she  may  be  less 
"  respectable,"  but  she  is  fully  as  convincing  as 
Becky,  though  not,  of  course,  equally  acceptable 
from  an  English  point  of  view.  Does  Balzac 
realize  his  wicked  heroine  more  intensely,  favoured 
to  this  end,  as  he  was,  by  the  greater  license  ac 
corded  him?  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  fancy  she 
stays  with  us  longer.  Hulot  always  went  back  to 
her  (nobody  ever  left  her,  she  naively  said),  and 
so  does  the  fit  reader  enamoured  of  the  great 
creations  of  art. 

As  for  Beite  herself,  she  is  without  a  rival  in 
Balzac  or  elsewhere — the  perfect  culmination  of 
his  studies  in  female  wickedness,  the  Black  Pearl 
that  he  drew  from  his  profound  and  laboured  al 
chemy  of  souls.  There  are  but  few  characters  in 
[138] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

fiction  so  vividly  and  terribly  realized  that  we 
never  lose  the  fear  which  the  mere  sight  of  the 
printed  page  where  they  have  their  life  imparts; 
and  of  these  is  the  incomparable  Bette.  But  in 
deed  her  quality  is  such  that  it  cannot  be  sug 
gested  in  a  few  lines  of  description.  I  always  go 
back  to  the  book  in  order  to  further  probe  her 
secret,  and  after  many  readings  I  have  not  yet 
found  it.  Like  lago,  she  seems  in  her  villainy 
without  adequate  motive,  but  with  this  difference, 
that  we  feel  she  is  justified  according  to  her  ter 
rible  inner  code  and  the  workings  of  her  dark 
nature.  The  chronicle  of  her  goings  and  comings, 
her  plots  and  counterplots,  her  sleepless  pursuit  of 
vengeance  nourished  by  a  savage  virginity,  is  all  of 
the  very  stuff  of  Balzac's  power.  Her  death  amid 
the  sincere  grief  of  the  unsuspecting  victims  of  her 
fury  and  hatred — hating  and  seeking  to  injure 
them  to  her  latest  breath — is  a  thing  made  credible 
only  by  the  force  of  the  genius  which  depicts  it. 
She  remains  perhaps  the  chief  enigma  and  the  su 
preme  triumph  of  Balzac's  art. 

Mr.  Saintsbury  perceives  the  full  beauty  of 
Lisbeih  (which  is  much  for  an  Englishman),  but 
excellent  critic  as  he  is,  I  cannot  follow  him  where 

[139] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

he  appears  to  doubt  whether  Balzac  has  made  the 
most  of  Hulot's  vice,  and  even  ventures  to  remark 
that  he  was  not  happy  in  treating  this  "  particular 
deadly  sin."  I  wonder  where  Mr.  Saintsbury 
would  direct  us  for  more  competent  treatment! 
So  much  depends  upon  Hulot,  the  blind  uncon 
scious  tragedian  of  the  piece,  that  if  he  be  a  failure 
the  work  cannot  be  called  great.  But  Mr.  Saints- 
bury  ranks  it  with  the  author's  very  greatest  work! 
Something  wrong  here  undoubtedly. 

T  GRANT  that  Hulot  is  "rather  disgusting" 
-*•  and  a  "  wholly  idiotic  old  fribble,"  especially 
toward  the  end  of  his  bad  courses ;  his  creator  so  de 
picted  him  with  deliberate  intent.  But  take  him  for 
all  in  all,  from  the  time  when  he  was  still  "  hand 
some  Hector,"  in  his  hearty,  libidinous  middle  age 
— to  the  latest  glimpse  of  him  in  his  ever-pru 
rient  senility,  and  I  maintain  that  the  Baron  Hulot 
d'Ervy  ranks  with  the  most  successful  figures  of 
the  "  Comedy,"  or  if  you  please,  of  the  literature  of 
fiction.  He  is  drawn  with  a  certainty  of  touch 
which  leaves  no  doubt  of  his  reality.  Where  in 
literature  do  we  find  such  another  picture  of  the 
libertine  sacrificing  all  that  men  hold  dear  and 
[140] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

sacred  to  the  vile  master  passion  that  consumes 
him,  body  and  soul?  The  picture  of  Hulot  in  his 
final  stage  of  depravity,  when  he  had  sunk  to  cre 
tinism  and  the  last  dregs  of  sensuality,  indifferent 
to  the  death  of  his  wife  whose  virtues  he  acknowl 
edged  and  whom  in  his  careless  way  he  had  loved 
— is  as  great  a  thing  as  you  shall  find  in  Balzac, 
repellent  as  it  may  be  to  English  susceptibil 
ities.  The  moral,  too,  is  fearfully  convincing; 
it  makes  you  believe  in  God,  the  Devil,  and 
Balzac! 

The  writers  who  have  accused  Balzac  of  libelling 
human  nature  in  such  characters  as  Hulot  have 
failed  to  make  out  their  case. 

To  George  Sand,  who  had  protested  against 
certain  characterizations  in  this  book  (and  they 
will  always  be  objected  to,  since  they  are  beyond 
the  pale  of  conventional  treatment),  the  author 
thus  justified  his  method: 

'  You  seek  to  paint  man  as  he  ought  to  be.  I 
take  him  as  he  is.  Believe  me,  we  are  both  right. 
I  am  fond  of  exceptional  beings.  I  am  one  my 
self.  Moreover,  I  need  them  to  give  relief  to  my 
common  characters,  and  I  never  sacrifice  them 
without  necessity." 

[141] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  recall  that 
Balzac's  "  Pere  Goriot,"  perhaps  the  most  power 
ful  novel  of  the  Nineteenth  century,  was  long  at 
tacked  as  immoral.  His  books,  or  many  of  them, 
are  on  the  Catholic  Index  as  taboo  to  the  faithful, 
though  he  was,  by  profession  at  least,  attached  to 
Royalism  and  the  Church;  and  though  he  wrote 
"  Jesus  Christ  in  Flanders."  Henley,  liberal  critic 
and  admirer  of  Balzac  as  he  was,  did  not  scruple  to 
accuse  the  author  of  a  leaning  toward  Sadism,  for 
which  he  claimed  to  have  found  warrant  in  certain 
parts  of  the  "  Comedy."  After  this  one  is  relieved 
to  find  that  the  noble  Lamartine,  who  had  full  op 
portunity  of  knowing  Balzac,  pronounced  him  a 
good  man — one  indeed  whose  conscience  had  a 
peculiar  repulsion  from  evil. 

The  risk  incurred  in  attempting  to  deduce  a 
writer's  moral  bias  or  personal  character  from  his 
literary  creations  has  not  seldom  been  pointed  out, 
but  it  will  always  attract  a  certain  type  of  critic. 

It  sometimes  happens  upon  the  disclosure  of  a 
crime  or  scandal  peculiarly  shocking — like  a  plague 
spot  suddenly  uncovered  in  the  community — that 
people  will  exclaim  against  it  as  incredible,  as  if 
to  compliment  human  nature  or  indemnify  the 
[142] 


BALZAC  THE  ARTIST 

cause  of  morality  in  general.  They  do  not  wish 
to  admit  the  possibility  of  such  deeds,  the  existence 
of  such  malefactors;  as  judging  the  admission  it 
self  to  be  a  criminal  offence.  This  seems  to  fairly 
represent  the  attitude  of  certain — mostly  English 
—critics  on  the  question  before  us.  They  refuse 
to  allow  that  the  human  character  can  be  as  bad 
as  Balzac  depicts  it,  and  even  if  so,  it  ought  not  to 
be  described  at  all !  In  a  word,  there  is  no  validity 
in  the  critical  objection  to  Balzac's  treatment  of 
evil  in  his  novels  (whatever  religious  casuistry 
might  make  of  it) .  The  question,  as  we  have  seen, 
did  not  trouble  our  author.  In  his  own  phrase, 
he  did  not  invent  human  nature  or  the  evil  thereof 
— he  observed  it  and  described  it  as  a  necessary 
element  of  his  great  task — the  history  of  a  com 
plete  society.  We  may  allow  that  Balzac's  divina- 
tory  genius  urged  him  to  sound  the  uttermost 
depths  of  human  wickedness — the  farthest  reaches 
of  the  lawless  will.  But  one  should  be  as  gifted 
as  the  author  of  the  "  Human  Comedy  "  himself  to 
determine  the  question  whether  it  sometimes  led 
him  astray  or  falsified  his  picture  of  life. 

To  conclude:    The  world  created  by  Balzac  in 
his  "  Human  Comedy  "  has  places  to  suit  tastes  the 

[143] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

most  diverse,  and  one  can  move  on  until  he  finds 
a  scene  to  his  liking.  I  know  not  if  it  be  true,  as 
some  English  critics  contend,  that  Balzac  has  por 
trayed  the  evil  that  is  in  human  nature  more  con 
vincingly  than  the  good;  at  any  rate,  the  question 
cannot  be  allowed  to  impeach  his  art.  Frenchmen 
like  Taine  make  no  difficulty  of  accepting  the 
"  Comedy  "  on  this  score. 

In  my  view,  there  is  within  the  wide  compass  of 
this  world  of  Balzac's  creation  many  a  haunted 
spot,  many  a  wondrous  enthralling  region  where 
the  light  of  genius  dwells  in  such  heart-troubling 
power  and  beauty  as  may  be  found  only  in  the 
work  of  a  very  few  writers,  and  these  the  great 
masters  of  the  literary  art. 


[144] 


THREE 

THE  FORTUNATE   HOAX  OF   PAGAN   WASTENEYS 

C1EVERAL  YEARS  ago  there  came  out  in  a 
^-J  well-known  American  magazine  a  little  story 
entitled  "  The  Death  of  the  Poet,"  which  pleased 
many  with  its  fantastic  humour  and  quaint  ironic 
pathos,  and  for  sundry  other  reasons  especially 
delighted  the  relative  few  who  deemed  themselves 
privileged  to  read  between  the  lines.  It  was  mani 
festly  the  fortunate,  if  somewhat  perverse,  conceit 
of  a  poet  railing  at  a  destiny  which,  with  all  its 
gifts,  had  failed  to  satisfy  him.  Moreover,  the  prose 
envelope  of  this  delicate  fantasy  was  wrought  in 
a  graceful  and  finished  style,  rarely  met  with  in 
the  current  of  contemporary  literature;  and  this, 
with  the  novelty  of  the  theme,  procured  it  more 
than  a  cursory  notice  from  our  select  reading 
public. 

The  story  purported  to  set  forth  a  last  and  ex 
traordinary  scene  in  the  life  of  Pagan  Wasteneys, 
an  English  poet  of  aesthetic  and  paradoxical  tend- 

[145] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

encies.  Feeling  that  he  has  not  long  to  live, 
though  still  under  forty,  and  finding  himself  so 
bored  with  life  that  he  can  look  forward  to  the 
end  without  regret,  the  poet,  unlike  Oscar  Wilde, 
heroically  resolves  not  to  "  die  beyond  his  means." 
Accordingly,  he  lashes  himself  up  to  a  fury  of  lit 
erary  production  and  thereby  is  enabled  to  satisfy 
the  claims  of  his  creditors  before  dying.  A  num 
erous  company,  they  are  summoned  to  his  bedside 
to  receive  that  which,  presumably,  they  had  often 
vainly  sought  at  his  hands.  All  are  paid  off  in 
new-minted  gold  sovereigns,  beautiful  as  the  poet's 
own  rhymes  which,  alas,  the  world  had  not  been 
always  willing  to  accept  as  legal  tender.  A  man 
of  law,  the  poet's  trusted  friend,  attends  to  the 
audit,  while  Mr.  Wasteneys  from  his  couch  looks 
on,  languidly  elate.  Each  tradesman  is  given 
something  over  and  above  the  amount  legally  due 
him — perhaps  as  a  gentle  rebuke  for  past  impor 
tunities.  Then  the  awed  creditors  withdraw  and 
the  poet  has  a  last  interview  with  his  wife  and 
two  young  daughters,  in  which  he  bears  himself 
with  remarkable  sangfroid — no  tears  being  shed 
save  those  of  fantasy.  Finally,  the  poet  orders 
that  his  books  be  brought  in — a  rather  staggering 
[146] 


PAGAN  WASTENEYS 

total  of  them — and  laid  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 
He  passes  his  long  white  hands  over  them  lovingly, 
and  requests  his  faithful  friend,  the  man  of  law,  to 
read  to  him  certain  of  the  poems.  This  is  done  to 
the  satisfaction  of  everybody  (the  reader  of  the 
tale  included)  ;  after  which  the  poet  saluting  his 
books  (fifty- three  in  number)  as  his  real  children, 
calmly  composes  himself  to  die.  Thus  ends  the 
little  story. 

T  APOLOGIZE  to  Mr.  Pagan  Wasteneys- 
•*•  pardon! — I  should  say  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gal- 
lienne — for  taking  these  crude  liberties  with  his 
charming  invention  (the  curious  reader  will  find 
it,  with  much  else  of  like  appetizing  quality,  in 
the  volume  entitled  "  Dinners  with  the  Sphinx  "). 
My  only  excuse  is  that  I  had  not  fallen  had  he 
not  proved  himself  so  cunning  a  tempter.  And 
while  praising  the  art  of  his  clever  hoax,  with  its 
undercurrent  of  serious  irony,  I  congratulate  him 
at  the  same  time  that  the  obituary  was  premature. 
For  had  Pagan  Wasteneys,  alias  Richard  Le  Gal- 
lienne,  passed  out  along  about  1905,  I  suspect  he 
would  not  fill  so  large  and  commanding  a  niche 
in  the  Temple  of  Fame  as  seems  now  assured  to 

[147] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

him.  Surely  it  is  better  that  a  poet  should  live 
on  to  give  his  best  to  the  world  than  that  a  parcel 
of  miserable  debts  should  be  paid  at  such  a  costly 
sacrifice.  This,  I  take  it,  is  the  meaning  of  Mr. 
Le  Gallienne's  apologue  of  the  poet  and  his  credi 
tors.  A  fable,  too,  that  was  not  without  its  justi 
fying  truth,  for  in  spite  of  all  the  cruel  and  stupid 
comedy  that  has  gathered  about  the  subject — the 
horse-collar  wit  of  generations  of  dullards — poets 
are  rather  more  apt  than  plumbers  to  suffer  and 
die  of  their  debts! 

Happily  for  literature,  the  poet  in  this  instance 
did  not  die,  and  so  we  have  his  latest  gift  to  the 
world,  "  The  Lonely  Dancer," — a  book  which  dis 
closes  higher  powers  than  any  previous  work  of 
his  and  ranks  him  with  a  very  small  group  of  the 
first  poets  of  the  age.  Yet  to  those  who  have 
long  known  and  loved  Le  Gallienne's  art,  this 
book  will  seem  to  mark  no  abrupt  transition  from 
cleverness  to  mastery,  but  merely  a  deepening  of 
the  note  and  a  perfecting  of  the  music  which 
announce  the  full  maturity  of  the  artist.  And 
they  will  justly  point  you  that  in  his  "  Hafiz," 
which  takes  us  back  over  a  decade,  Richard 
achieved  a  work,  lacking  indeed  the  reclame  of 
[148] 


PAGAN  WASTENEYS 

Fitzgerald's  "  Omar,"  but  surpassing  it  in  poetic 
craftsmanship,  in  tender  and  versatile  fancy,— 
above  all,  in  such  a  blending  and  marrying  of  his 
own  inspiration  with  that  of  his  Oriental  proto 
type,  as  has  yielded  a  masterpiece  of  English  verse, 
not  merely  or  substantively  what  is  called  a  poet's 
translation.  These  friendly  advocates  of  our  poet 
will  cite  you  the  great  love  lyric  beginning, 

ff  The  days  of  distance  and  the  nights  apart" 

as  worthy  to  be  added  to  the  imperishable  litany 
of  passion;  and  indeed  it  is  not  easy  to  deny  them. 
The  poetical  talent  of  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  was 
early  manifested,  and  in  truth  his  precocity  was 
such  as  to  raise  a  fear  that  he  would  not  go  the 
distance.  Charming  as  his  juvenilia  were,  there 
was  that  in  the  young  poet's  work  which  might 
well  have  given  his  literary  sponsors  even  greater 
concern.  I  allude  to  its  extreme  facility,  which 
in  turn  was  conditioned  at  times  by  a  superficial 
prettiness  and  sentimentalism.  Emerson  says  that 
the  poet  must  bleed,  but  in  those  young  days, 
Richard  shed  no  blood  save  that  of  the  rose  of 
pleasure.  On  this  account  chiefly,  a  severe  criti- 

[149] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

cism  long  denied  virility  to  Le  Gallienne's  verse, 
and  (according  to  the  fixed  custom  of  critics)  in 
order  to  prove  its  case,  did  him  a  considerable 
injustice.  There  never  was  a  time  since  he  first 
appeared  with  his  "  Book-Bills  of  Narcissus," 
when  Richard  could  not,  if  he  so  elected,  write 
like  a  true  poet. 

But  it  might  not  well  be  gainsaid  even  by  those 
who  cherished  his  talent,  that  in  his  curled  youth, 
like  Hylas  on  his  errand  to  the  fountain,  Richard 
played  and  loitered  too  much  by  the  way.  Youth 
is  a  sweet  thing,  to  be  sure,  but  even  a  poet  must 
not  overstay  his  time  in  certain  phases  of  juve 
nility.  I  suspect,  too,  that  Richard's  light-o'-loves, 
of  which  he  has  had  rather  more  than  a  fair  allow 
ance,  have  not  served  him  well  with  the  stern  war 
dens  of  literature,  and  perhaps  have  taken  from 
him  more  than  they  gave.  It  is  very  interesting, 
but  highly  perilous,  to  both  live  and  write  your 
romances:  which  rightly  or  wrongly,  has  been  im 
puted  to  our  poet.  A  too  great  preoccupation 
with  mere  Girl,  and  a  certain  rather  effeminate 
cult  of  beauty,  have  in  the  past  told  against  a  full 
acceptance  of  Mr.  Le  Gallienne. 

But  there  is,  fortunately,  little  trace  of  the  faults 
[150] 


PAGAN  WASTENEYS 

just  alluded  to  in  the  latest  book  we  owe  to  the 
fertile  genius  of  this  poet.  His  merits,  as  I  have 
said,  appear  in  a  heightened  valuation,  compelling 
a  new  appraisal  of  the  man  and  his  work.  Evi 
dently  Richard  is  of  those  hardy  perennials  who 
go  on  to  more  than  justify  the  tender  promise  of 
their  first  flowering.  This  book  gives  us  a  wiser 
and  maturer  Richard — sadder,  too,  doubtless,  but 
the  more  lovable  for  that,  quaintly  as  he  some 
times  copies  the  accent  of  Ecclesiastes.  But  he 
has  achieved  true  pathos  at  last,  and  with  it  the 
full  estate  of  the  poet.  I  find  his  latest  work 
redolent  throughout  of  the  sap  and  savour  of  the 
English  poetical  genius  that  was  yesterday  vocal 
in  Keats  and  Shelley,  and  to-day  "  warbles  its 
wood-notes  wild  "  through  Richard  Le  Gallienne. 

IT  IS  not  to  be  questioned  that  the  reading  pub 
lic  in  general  have  an  aversion  to  poetry, 
mainly  because,  though  the  most  difficult  form  of 
writing,  it  is  yet  the  most  commonly  attempted  by 
fools.  Palliate  the  fact  as  we  may,  there  is  the  tes 
timony  of  the  bookstalls  to  confirm  it,  and  not  less 
significant  is  the  attitude  of  publishers,  who  are  no 
toriously  reluctant  to  bring  out  verse,  unless  at  the 

[151] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

author's  proper  expense — and  mark  you,  Cerberus 
is  not  always  to  be  so  baited.  That  the  public 
knows  what  it  wants  and  that  it  does  not  want 
poetry  (save  in  exceptional  cases)  is  a  broad  sail 
ing  regulation  in  the  publishing  trade.  It  prob 
ably  harks  back  to  the  resolution  of  the  famous 
English  house  of  John  Murray,  in  the  third  quar 
ter  of  the  last  century,  to  publish  no  more  poetry. 
The  fact  is  that  the  English  reading  world  had 
been  long  overdone  with  feeble  and  abortive  imi 
tations  of  Byron,  Moore,  Scott  and  a  few  other 
pre- Victorians,  which  caused  a  public  revulsion 
that  has  lasted  unto  our  day.  The  world  would 
never  turn  from  good  poetry,  but  the  sickness  pro 
duced  by  bad  poetry  is  of  a  kind  hard  to  over 
come. 

Here,  then,  is  one  very  practical  reason  why  it 
is  so  difficult  to  be  a  poet  nowadays:  whatever  be 
the  value  of  the  gift  he  brings,  he  is  only  too  apt 
to  find  the  gates  barred  against  him.  That  a  poet 
should  expect  to  live  by  his  verse  seems  to  us  as 
hazardous  an  adventure  and  as  comic  a  notion  as  it 
was  in  Grub  Street  days.  I  do  not  think  the  mir 
acle  has  been  performed  in  our  time,  though  a  fat 
purse  may  be  occasionally  lifted  on  the  shady 
[152] 


PAGAN  WASTENEYS 

slopes  of  Parnassus.  To  live  by  poetry  is  in  truth 
a  dreadful  trade,  like  gathering  samphire  on  Dover 
cliff;  and  hence,  no  doubt,  the  many  volumes  of 
Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  prose. 

For  all  that,  mind  you,  poetry  will  continue  to 
be  written  so  long  as  Love  and  Beauty  rule  the 
hearts  of  men:  and  the  poet  with  the  true  stuff 
in  him  will  never  fail  to  charm  away  those  frown 
ing  gates  with  the  challenge  of  his  song. 

I  need  not  descant  upon  the  peculiar  merits  and 
qualities  of  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  work,  rated  as  it  is 
in  literary  estimation,  but  I  should  be  unhappy  if 
my  readers  did  not  enjoy  to  the  full  with  me  the 
poem,  "  To  a  Bird  at  Dawn,"  in  Mr.  Le  Galli 
enne's  latest  volume.  To  my  mind,  it  is  the  highest 
and  purest  lyric  cry  that  has  been  heard  for  many 
years  in  English  poetry,  and  may  well  send  us 
questing  back  to  Keats  or  Shelley  for  a  like  strain 
of  artistic  excellence  and  austere  beauty.  This 
poem  authenticates  the  sacer  vates  in  Mr.  Le 
Gallienne  as  no  previous  song  of  his  has  been 
able  to  do,  and  raises  him  to  an  unchallengeable 
primacy  among  the  living  English  choir. 


[153] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

I  WANT  to  say  a  word  on  the  "  style  "  of  Mr. 
Le  Gallienne's  poetry,  as  distinguished  from 
its  content.  People  commonly  think  of  style  as 
applied  to  prose,  and  all  poetry,  perhaps  with  more 
or  less  reason,  looks  the  same  to  them.  But  our 
poet's  style  is  the  first  to  be  noted  of  his  distinc 
tions,  marking  his  work  most  clearly  and  unmistak 
ably  as  of  the  best  English  tradition.  It  has  the 
seal  of  intellect  and  race.  In  a  word,  it  is  a  pure 
and  genuine  poetic  style,  for  the  like  of  which  you 
will  search  long  among  contemporary  makers  of 
verse.  One  effect  of  this  exquisite  distinction  lies 
in  the  fact  that  you  can  never  fancy  Mr.  Le  Gal 
lienne's  poetry  being  disarticulated  as  prose — a 
thing  which,  absurdly  enough,  is  often  suggested 
in  reading  even  the  more  pretentious  verse  of  our 
time.  Form  and  thought  are  indivisible  in  the 
work  of  this  poet — a  significant  proof  of  his 
superiority. 

The  poem  referred  to  is  a  quite  flawless  speci 
men  of  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's  poetic  style.  There 
are  many  pieces  in  the  same  delightful  volume  that 
come  little  short  of  it  in  point  of  true  inspiration 
and  distinction  of  form.  This  article  is  already 
[154] 


PAGAN  WASTENEYS 

exceeding  bounds,  but  I  cannot  forbear  quoting, 
as  illustrative  of  the  views  here  expressed  of  Mr. 
Le  Gallienne's  poetry,  the  following  extract  from 
that  most  unusual  nature  poem  which  he  has  called 
"Alma  Venus": 

Beyond  the  heaving  glitter  of  the  floe, 
The  free  blue  water  sparkles  to  the  sky, 
Losing  itself  in  brightness;  to  and  fro 
Long  bands  of  mist  trail  luminously  by. 
And,  as  behind  a  screen,  on  the  sea's  rim 
Hid  softnesses  of  sunshine  come  and  go, 
And  shadowy  coasts  in  sudden  glory  swim! — • 
O  land  made  out  of  distance  and  desire!— 
With  ports  of  mystic  pearl  and  crests  of  fire. 

Thence,  somewhere  in  the  spaces  of  the,  sea, 
Travelled  this  halcyon  breath  presaging  Spring; 
Over  the  water  even  now  secretly 
She  maketh  ready  in  her  hands  to  bring 
Blossom  and  blade  and  wing; 
And  soon  the  wave  shall  ripple  with  her  feet, 
And  her  wild  hair  be  blown  about  the  skies, 
And  with  her  bosom  all  the  world  grow  sweet, 
And  blue  with  the  sea-blue  of  her  deep  eyes, 
The  meadow,  like  another  sea,  shall  flower, 
And  all  the  earth  be  song  and  singing  shower; 

[155] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

While  watching,  in  some  hollow  of  the  grass 
By  the  seas  edge,  I  may  behold  her  stand, 
With  rosy  feet,  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Pause  in  a  dream,  and  to  the  woodland  pass. 

This  also,  from  the  "  Country  Gods  " — which 
is,  besides,  remarkable  for  sounding  a  deep  and 
virile  note  that  has  seldom,  if  ever,  been  credited 
to  our  poet,  is  nobly  to  the  same  purpose.  It  will 
remind  the  classically  founded  reader  of  more 
than  one  poem  of  Horace's,  but  there  is  no  con 
scious  imitation  and  the  chief  point  of  resemblance 
is  that  it  enforces,  with  scarcely  less  poetic  charm, 
a  kindred  philosophy.  True  poets,  you  see,  are 
always  contemporaries: — that  is  an  advantage  of 
being  immortal! 

I  dwell  with  all  things  great  and  fair: 
The  green  earth  and  the  lustral  air, 
The  sacred  spaces  of  the  sea, 
Day  in,  day  out,  companion  me. 
Pure-faced,  pure-thoughted  folk  are  mine 
With  whom  to  sit  and  laugh  and  dine; 
In  every  sunlit  room  is  heard 
Love  singing,  like  an  April  bird, 
And  everywhere  the  moonlit  eyes 
Of  beauty  guard  our  paradise; 
[156] 


PAGAN  WASTENEYS 

While,  at  the  ending  of  the  day, 
To  the  kind  country  gods  we  pray, 
And  dues  of  our  fair  living  pay. 

Ah!  then  how  good  my  life  I  know, 
How  good  it  is  each  day  to  go 
Where  the  great  voices  call,  and  where 
The  eternal  rhythms  flow  and  flow. 
In  that  august  companionship, 
The  subtle  poisoned  words  that  drip, 
With  guileless  guile,  from  friendly  lip, 
The  lie  that  flits  from  ear  to  ear 
Ye  shall  not  speak,  ye  shall  not  hear; 
Nor  shall  you  fear  your  heart  to  say, 
Lest  he  who  listens  shall  betray. 
The  man  who  hearkens  all  day  long 
To  the,  sea's  cosmic-thoughted  song 
Comes  with  purged  ears  to  lesser  speech, 
And  something  of  the  skyey  reach 
Great  ens  the  gaze  that  feeds  on  space; 
The  starlight  writes  upon  his  face 
That  bathes  in  starlight,  and  the  morn 
Chrisoms  with  dew,  when  day  is  born, 
The  eyes  that  drink  the  holy  light 
Welling  from  the  deep  springs  of  night. 


[157] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

I  HAVE  said  that  Mr.  Le  Gallienne  has  at 
length  achieved  true  pathos,  which  to  a  singer 
of  his  joyous  and  hedonistic  impulse  naturally 
came  a  little  late  in  the  day's  account.  There  are 
not  a  few  tokens  throughout  this  book  that  our 
poet  has  served  his  novitiate  of  sorrow,  but  noth 
ing  more  unaffectedly  touching  than  the  following 
simple  verses  without  a  title. 

Who  was  it  swept  against  my  door  just  now, 
With  rustling  robes  like  Autumns — was  it  thou? 
Ah,  would  it  were  thy  gown  against  my  door — = 
Only  thy  gown  once  more. 

Sometimes    the   snow,    sometimes    the   fluttering 

breath 

Of  April,  as  toward  May  she  wandereth, 
Make  me  a  moment  think  that  it  is  thou — 
But  yet  it  is  not  thou! 

I  now  put  this  tantalizing  book  out  of  hand  so 
that  I  may  not  be  tempted  to  quote  at  further 
length — there  is  especially  "  Flos  Aevorum,"  itself 
a  perfect  flower  of  art  and  poesy;  and  c  The 
Mystic  Friends,"  wherein  the  voices  of  Wind  and 
Rain  and  Sea  are  rendered  in  a  noble  diapason; 
and  not  a  few  others  that  challenge  me  to  pay 
[158] 


PAGAN  WASTENEYS 

with  grateful  words  something  of  the  debt  I  owe 
them. 

For  this  poet  is  a  bringer  of  gifts — poeta  ferens 
dona — and  especially  he  brings  happiness,  that  sov 
ereign  gift  without  which  all  his  charming  were  in 
vain.  These  poems  are  tremulous  with  a  summons 
of  joy  that  opens  all  hearts,  and  yet  plangent  with 
that  sweet  pain  of  sorrow  "  remembering  happier 
things,"  which  is  equally  a  necessity  of  our 
strangely  compounded  clay.  I  can  hardly  think 
of  a  living  poet  who  is  better  able  to  serve  us 
in  this  dual  wise  than  Richard  Le  Gallienne. 

Therefore,  I  conclude  as  I  began, — and  now  I 
trust  with  the  reader's  pleased  concurrence,— 
that  Poetry  has  reason  to  be  glad  she  was  not 
bidden  to  the  actual  funeral  of  Mr.  Pagan  Waste- 
neys,  or  following  the  Horatian  image,  called 
upon  to  moisten  the  ashes  of  her  friend  the  poet 
with  an  indebted  tear.  Be  it  many  a  year  ere  the 
cypress  shall  mingle  in  her  garland  for  him  whose 
just  praise  is  now  voiced  by  the  silver  trumpets 
of  fame! 


[159] 


FOUR 

THE  MAID  AGAIN 

MARK  TWAIN,  who  loved  Joan  of  Arc  and 
found  in  her  wonderful  career  the  inspira 
tion  of  his  most  artistic  book,  perhaps  his  master 
piece,  writing  to  me  a  half-dozen  years  ago,  said: 

"  I  was  hoping  that  they  (the  Church)  would 
not  canonize  her.  We  do  not  raise  monuments 
to  Adam:  he  is  a  monument  himself." 

In  point  of  strict  fact,  Joan  has  not  been  canon 
ized:  she  has  been  beatified — which  is  canonically 
a  different  thing,  though  the  difference  will  not 
seem  important  to  those  of  other  faiths.  The 
Maid,  then,  is  honoured  with  the  appellation  of 
Blessed,  but  she  is  not  called  a  Saint,  which  would 
entitle  her  to  receive,  in  her  character  of  heavenly 
intercessor,  the  prayers  of  the  faithful. 

Catholics,  therefore,  must  not  pray  to  her  as 
they  do  or  may  to  other  recognized  Saints.  In 
France,  especially  since  the  war  began  that  has 
[160] 


THE  MAID  AGAIN 

so  tried  the  patience  and  courage  of  the  people, 
they  have  shown  a  disposition  to  ignore  this  theo- 
logic  distinction  and  to  prefer  Joan  beyond  all  the 
Saints  of  the  calendar.  And  truly  one  might  not 
blame  the  poor  people  in  this  dark  hour  for  think 
ing  above  all  of  cette  bonne  Jeanne  d'Arc  who  was 
of  their  common  blood  and  who  showed  right  gal 
lantly  that  she  knew  how  to  help  them.  Hence 
in  one  diocese  the  Bishop  ordered  her  effigy  to  be 
removed  from  the  churches,  as  the  people  insisted 
upon  praying  to  it,  although  the  head  was  without 
the  nimbus  or  circle  of  rays  which  indicates  the 
plenary  degree  of  saintship.  This  action  of  the 
holy  man  was  roundly  criticised  (Joan  never  was 
lucky  with  Bishops!)  and  indeed,  viewing  all  the 
circumstances,  it  may  well  have  left  him  liable  to 
the  charge  of  lese-patriotisme. 

A  clever  French  writer,  M.  Jean  de  Bonnefon, 
has  composed  a  double  Invocation  to  the  Maid 
with  a  view,  as  he  professes,  to  satisfying  both 
Catholics  and  non-believers  and  rallying  all  parties 
under  her  standard.  I  translate  the  laic  Prayer 
or  "  eloge  "  which  appeared  not  long  ago  in  the 
"  Mercure  de  France." 

[161] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

GLORY  TO  Joan  of  Arc!  daughter  of  the 
people,  truly  and  proudly  a  heretic,  betrayed 
by  her  King,  sold  by  the  nobles,  martyred  by  the 
priests. 

Glory  to  Joan  of  Arc!  condemned  at  Rouen  by 
the  whole  Roman  Church,  by  the  Cardinal  of 
Winchester  and  by  the  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  by 
the  Vicar  of  the  Inquisition  representing  the  Holy 
See,  by  the  official  theologians  of  the  Faculty  of 
Paris,  by  the  priests  and  monks  of  every  order. 

Glory  to  Joan  of  Arc !  whose  King  had  her  trial 
revised  eighteen  years  after  the  murder  at  Rouen, 
not  to  rehabilitate  the  fame  of  her  who  had  saved 
France,  but  only  to  prove  that  he,  the  King,  had 
not  employed  a  creature  of  the  Devil. 

Glory  to  Joan  of  Arc!  terrible  to  the  enemies 
of  France,  rebellious  to  the  theologians  of  Rome, 
inspirer  of  the  new  patriotism,  adversary  of 
religious  intolerance. 

Glory  to  Joan  of  Arc!  forgotten  so  long  as 
lasted  the  power  of  Kings  whose  throne  she  had 
saved:  glorified  by  the  French  people  as  soon  as 
they  had  learned  liberty  from  the  Revolution. 

Joan  triumphant  belongs  to  France;  Joan  the 
[162] 


THE  MAID  AGAIN 

martyr   belongs   to   the   Revolution   and   to    free 
thought. 

Joan,  the  first  and  most  beautiful  example  of 
heroic  womanhood,  is  also  the  finest  example  of 
what  human  ferocity  can  do,  in  lies,  in  calumnies 
and  in  tortures. 

Joan  created  in  the  Fifteenth  century  two  laic 
novelties :  the  cult  of  the  fatherland  as  against  the 
international  cult  of  religion;  the  right  to  liberty 
of  conscience,  affirmed  before  her  judges  and 
executioners. 

Joan  of  Arc  believed  in  God  and  despised  the 
Church.  Proofs: 

To  the  women  who  asked  her  to  touch  some 
objects  in  order  to  bless  them,  she  replied:  "  Touch 
them  yourselves;  that  will  be  just  as  good." 

In  the  time  of  Joan  of  Arc  there  were  three 
Popes  at  once.  Armagnac  asked  the  Virgin  War 
rior  to  point  out  the  true  one.  "  I  will  tell  you," 
she  said,  laughing,  "  as  soon  as  the  English  give 
me  time  to  breathe." 

Before  the  assembly  of  Poitiers  Joan  made  fun 
of  a  Dominican  who  asked  her  in  a  terrified  tone, 
'*  What  language  do  your  Voices  speak! " 

"  A  better  language  than  yours." 

[163] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

"  Remember,"  said  a  learned  Doctor,  "  that  you 
are  before  the  theologians  who  have  studied  all 
books." 

"  God  has  a  book,"  answered  Joan,  "  where  no 
priest  has  ever  read." 

Never  spoke  Joan  in  the  name  of  the  Pope,  in 
the  name  of  the  Church.  She  admitted  no  human 
intermediary  between  her  and  heaven. 

At  Rouen  she  said  to  the  Bishops:  "There  is 
more  in  the  books  of  God  than  in  yours! " 

"  Are  you  willing  to  submit  yourself  to  the 
Pope?"  cried  the  inquisitor. 

'  Take  me  before  him  and  I  will  make  answer 
to  him,"  replied  the  proud  daughter  of  the  people. 

Conclusion : 

The  Church  dared  not  beatify  Joan  as  a  martyr, 
for  she  was  the  Martyr  of  the  One  Church! 

The  first  sentence  of  Rouen  said:  "  Joan  of  Arc 
is  cut  off  from  the  Church  like  an  infected  member 
and  delivered  to  the  secular  arm." 

Glory  to  Joan  of  Arc!  the  first  free  believer  of 
the  beautiful  country  of  France,  saved  from 
calumny  and  hate  by  the  people.  The  head  of 
Joan  of  Arc  needs  no  gilded  nimbus:  her  true 
altar,  laic  and  French,  is  the  Catholic  death-fire  of 
[164] 


THE  MAID  AGAIN 

Rouen  whose  fierce  flame  illumines  the  immor 
tality  of  her  superb  forehead! 

The  orthodox  Prayer  by  the  same  hand,  though 
not  so  long,  is  apparently  as  fervent  and  sincere, 
while  it  states  the  position  of  the  Church  without 
weakness  or  undue  apology.  (Unlike  the  torturing 
of  Galileo  which  remains  in  some  doubt,  the  trial 
and  punishment  of  Joan,  public,  extraordinary, 
minutely  attested,  cannot  be  palliated  or  quibbled 
away.)  I  have  not  left  myself  room  for  this 
"  eloge  "  in  its  entirety,  but  I  give  the  better  and 
greater  part  of  it.  This  Invocation  is  less  mili 
tant  and  striking  than  the  previous  one,  and  nat 
urally  so;  but  as  I  have  said,  the  writer  seems  to 
deal  fairly  as  between  the  two  altars,  and  it  cannot 
be  urged  that  he  brings  more  incense  to  the  one 
than  to  the  other.  Copying  his  impartiality,  I 
offer  the  following  version: 

Joan  of  Arc  had  received  a  mission — to  deliver 
France  from  the  yoke  of  the  stranger. 

She  was  the  sword  and  the  buckler  of  God 
committed  to  the  service  of  France. 

France  can  be  saved  by  her  memory  as  she  was 
saved  by  her  heroic  deeds. 

[165] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

• 
Without  divine  intervention  it  is  impossible  to 

explain  how  a  seventeen-year-old  child,  an  inno 
cent  daughter  of  the  fields,  knowing  only  the 
catechism,  familiar  only  with  the  labours  of  a  small 
farm,  could  become  the  leader  of  an  army,  drag 
ging  Victory  behind  her! 

Joan  is  the  single  human  figure  who  unites  at 
the  same  time,  in  a  sublime  ideal,  the  warrior  and 
the  saint,  the  heroine  and  the  martyr,  the  invinci 
ble  archangel  with  the  sword  and  the  innocent 
virgin  adorned  only  with  her  virtue. 

She  offers  the  most  illustrious  example  of  what 
human  weakness  is  capable  when  it  becomes  the 
docile  instrument  of  Divine  Omnipotence.  She 
was  always  careful,  at  the  summit  of  glory  as  in 
the  depths  of  her  dungeon,  to  perform  with  a 
scrupulous  fidelity  the  duties  of  the  most  fervent 
piety. 

To  condemn  the  Church  for  having  tortured 
Joan  of  Arc  is,  with  bad  faith,  to  confound  the 
errors  of  some  men  of  the  Church,  who  pass,  with 
the  role  of  the  Church,  which  remains.  It  is  the 
Church  which  has  rehabilitated  Joan  of  Arc,  which 
has  created  her  popularity.  It  is  the  Pope  of 
Rome  who  has  desired  to  confer  upon  her  the 
[166] 


THE  MAID  AGAIN 

greatest  honour  within  his  power — that  of  the 
altars. 

During  her  trial  she  ceased  not  to  appeal  to  the 
Pope,  and  she  demanded  to  be  brought  before  the 
Bishop  of  Rome  in  order  that  she  might  justify 
herself. 

On  the  death-pile,  as  the  fire  mounted,  she 
begged  Martin  Ladvenu  to  hold  the  cross  high- 
raised,  so  that  she  might  see  the  Sign  of  God 
until  the  last  second  above  the  flames. 

The  Church  in  beatifying  Joan  of  Arc  has  torn 
aside  the  veils  which  error  had  cast  upon  a  holy 
figure. 

'T^HESE  TWO  invocations  seem  to  me  to  rep- 
•*•  resent  something  more  than  a  literary  tour 
de  force  or  a  proof  of  French  versatility:  there  is 
in  truth  a  deeper  lesson  behind  them.  Joan  of  Arc 
remains  one  of  the  few  dominant  figures  of  history 
— in  certain  respects  of  character  and  conduct  she 
approaches  the  Nazarene  himself!  Her  story  par 
allels  His  in  the  obscurity  of  her  birth  and  early 
life,  and  in  the  supreme  points  of  the  Mission,  the 
Betrayal  and  the  Sacrifice.  Also  she  resembles 
the  Great  Martyr  in  her  eternal  destiny ;  like  Him 

[167] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

she  has  been  as  a  sword  flung  into  the  world.  She 
is  still  under  trial,  in  spite  of  the  tardy  Beatifica 
tion — a  partial  surrender  of  the  Church  whose 
ministers  charged  themselves  with  her  death. 
Alone  among  the  victims  of  mediaeval  darkness, 
cruelty  and  intolerance,  she  has  been  able  to  com 
pel  from  the  distance  of  five  centuries  this  meas 
ure  of  justice  and  vindication.  But  it  is  not 
enough! — still  her  quarrel  proceeds, — her  white 
banner  flutters  in  the  van  of  the  eternal  conflict— 
and  not  yet  has  she  lost  her  old  wondrous  power 
to  summon  the  brave  and  the  chivalrous  to  her 
defence.  Strip  every  vestige  of  the  supernatural 
from  her  legend* — and  still  she  remains  a  marvel 
and  an  enigma  to  all  time,  as  she  is  the  choicest 
glory  of  the  fair  land  of  France  which  she 
redeemed  at  the  price  of  her  blood.  In  truth  one 
feels  in  such  an  hour  as  the  present  that  the  Maid 
has  come  to  personify  France  herself! — Beyond 
that  Glory  has  nothing  to  give. 

*  Voltaire  found  that  it  could  not  be  degraded  even  by  such 
powers  of  satire  and  mockery  as  he  possessed.  And  his  "  La 
Pucelle"  remains  a  witness  to  his  everlasting  disgrace.  Anatole 
France  has  fared  no  better  in  his  laboured  attempt  to  belittle,  if 
not  actually  to  scandalize,  the  Maid. 

[168] 


FIVE 

OUR  BEST-LOVED   POET 

IT  IS  a  very  ancient,  and  surely  a  gracious 
belief,  still  held  by  the  elect  few,  that  poets  do 
not  grow  old  of  the  spirit:  their  bodily  part  may 
comply  with  the  universal  law  of  decay,  but  the 
soul  of  the  poet  shares,  by  some  decree  of  the  stars, 
in  the  eternal  youth  of  his  song. 

This  is  only  to  say  that  the  true  poet  is  Divine, 
god-like,  participating  in  the  immanent  and  im 
perishable  Essence  of  life.  Such  at  least  was  the 
faith  of  the  wise  ancients — so  much  wiser  than  we 
as  to  many  high  things.  Be  sure  that  when 
Horace  talked  of  turning  into  a  bird  and  pre 
dicted  his  immortality,  there  was  nobody  to  jeer 
in  Rome. 

There  is  in  our  land  to-day,  growing  old  grace 
fully  as  to  the  body  but  ever  younger  of  the  spirit, 
one  whom  I  have  heretofore  called  our  best-loved 
Poet.*  I  doubt  if  a  single  intelligent  voice  the 

*Mr.  Riley  died  in  July,   1916. 

[169] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

whole  country  over  would  deny  Tiim  this  merited 
title  and  distinction.  His  mere  name  has  grace  to 
summon  an  impulse  of  love  and  gratitude  to  the 
lips  of  thousands,  such  as  I  believe  no  other 
American  poet  has  ever  been  able  to  command. 
In  his  own  home  State  of  Indiana  this  feeling 
rises  to  a  sort  of  idolatry — and  very  proper  it  is! 
Literature  in  our  time  has  not  been  more  sig 
nally  honoured  than  when  James  Whitcomb  Riley's 
birthday  was  made  a  Holiday  for  the  school-chil 
dren  of  Indiana.  No  poet  has  ever  lived  or  war 
bled  or  wrote  or  sung  to  whom  childhood  owes 
so  much  which  maturity  is  so  glad  to  pay!  In 
this  province  alone  he  has  had  no  end  of  imitators, 
but  scarcely  a  single  worthy  rival. 

No  writer  of  our  time  has  won  to  the  hearts 
of  the  plain  people  with  anything  like  the  success 
of  Riley.  He  had  mastered  the  secret  of  Dickens, 
who,  by  the  way,  was  a  lifelong  source  of  inspira 
tion  to  him ; — he  early  found  and  always  kept  open 
the  way  to  the  popular  heart.  His  fresh  and  ver 
satile  genius  worked  upon  the  old  human  themes, 
yet  ever  new  to  each  generation,  with  unflagging 
charm,  and  sympathy,  and  inspiration.  Fortu 
nately,  he  did  not  have  that  surfeit  of  academic 
[170] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 

culture  which  kills  off  the  poet  and  produces  the 
pedant.  Largely  self-taught,  like  his  master 
Dickens,  his  best  literary  capital  to  begin  was  his 
immense  zest  of  life,  and  his  touch  with  all  com 
mon  joys  and  sorrows.  I  am  glad  that  he  did  not 
bother  to  learn  Latin,  for  had  he  done  so  he  would 
not  have  written  "  The  Old  Swimmin'  Hole."  He 
left  the  plucking  of  rare  and  difficult  laurels  to 
others,  content  for  himself  to  write  the  Plain-song 
of  the  American  people,  and  especially  of  his  own 
"  home  folks "  of  Indiana.  In  so  electing  he 
"  builded  better  than  he  knew,"  or  perhaps  obeyed 
a  profound  suggestion  of  his  Destiny. 

Life,  far  more  than  literature,  was  Riley's 
material;  the  light  he  gives  is  of  the  very  sun 
of  life,  not  a  pale  reflection  caught  from  literary 
mirrors.  These  half-dozen  volumes  of  his  are 
bursting  with  joyous  life  and  quaint  humour  and 
native  wit  and  many  an  untaught  felicity, — aye, 
and  there  are  not  lacking  songs  as  high  and  pure, 
lyrics  of  as  consummate  an  art  as  may  be  placed  to 
the  credit  of  any  American  poet.  This  is  not  to 
apologize  for  Riley's  work  in  dialect: — he  is  an 
artist  in  that  not  less  than  in  his  more  conventional 
efforts. 

[171] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

There  is  a  kind  of  literary  art,'  and  a  very  per 
durable  kind,  which  must  first  be  parochial  in 
order  to  become  universal.  Its  apparently  artless 
form  and  simple  content  commend  it  at  first  to 
the  unlearned  and  uncritical;  it  is  warmed  and 
cherished  in  the  hearts  of  the  common  people  ere 
it  be  given  to  or  accepted  by  the  polite  literary 
world.  Of  this  order  was  the  poetry  of  Robert 
Burns,  and  to  it  belongs  a  great  part  of  the  work 
of  James  Whitcomb  Riley.  However,  it  must  be 
allowed  that,  setting  aside  the  question  of  dialect, 
Riley  is  a  better  poet  in  regular  English  than  his 
famous  brother  of  the  thistle.  Natural  as  was 
his  impulse  to  sing,  and  easy  as  seemed  his  tri 
umphs  in  dialect  verse,  the  American  strove  all 
his  life  for  artistry.  I  believe  he  was  a  greater 
and  finer  artist  than  is  generally  recognized,  his 
popular  appeal  having  prejudiced  him  in  the  eyes 
of  the  critical. 

To  praise  a  poet  for  his  popularity  is  to  dis 
praise  him  in  the  estimation  of  many  critical- 
minded  persons.  But  there  is  an  important  dis 
tinction  to  observe.  Some  of  Will  Carleton's 
fiomely  dialect  pieces  have  been  circulated  as 
widely  perhaps  as  similar  work  of  Mr.  Riley's. 
[172] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 

No  competent  judge  of  verse  would,  therefore, 
class  these  writers  on  the  same  plane.  Shake 
speare  and  Tupper  in  the  same  bookcase  need  not 
produce  a  confusion  of  their  merits.  Anatole 
France  argues  that  there  is  no  certain,  fixed, 
absolute  criterion  of  literary  excellence.  Doubt 
less  he  is  right,  but  the  "  fixed  principle  "  which 
he  regards  as  wanting  in  the  judgment  of  con 
temporary  art,  is  seen  to  apply  in  the  distant 
result  of  time.  With  all  the  legends  of  neglected 
genius,  it  is  still  to  be  shown  that  the  world  has 
ever  gone  long  wilfully  blind  to  really  great  work. 
It  has  a  large  hospitality,  and  often  it  seems  to 
favour  unduly  the  mediocre  and  the  ephemeral,  for 
these  amuse  it  also;  but  from  long  experience, 
it  has  a  shrewd  eye  for  the  occasional  masterpiece. 
Mr.  Riley  need  not  lead  us  into  this  debatable 
land;  his  fame  is  as  undisputed  as  his  work  is 
valuable  and  sincere.  He  has  never  pretended  to 
write  above  the  heads  and  hearts  of  the  plain 
people;  never  aimed  in  his  poetry  to  be,  in  a 
literary  sense,— 

te  too  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food." 

[173] 


* 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

There  never  was  anything  perverse  about  his 
thought  or  his  morals  or  his  literary  principles. 
It  never  would  occur  to  him  to  go  outside  the 
decencies  of  life  for  a  subject.  His  art  from  the 
beginning  was  a  flower  that  took  its  richest  hues 
from  the  life  around  him — the  life  of  a  simple, 
plain,  virtuous,  God-fearing  people.  So  his  work 
is  clean,  elemental,  spontaneous; — withal  motived 
throughout  by  an  endearing  humanity  which  at 
its  deepest  and  best  is,  I  would  almost  say,  a  new 
note  in  literature — the  special  offering  of  James 
Whitcomb  Riley. 

Take  this  little  poem  which  everybody — at  least 
every  woman — knows  by  heart.  It  is  simple 
almost  to  artlessness,  and  yet  it  fully  reveals  the 
characteristic  genius  of  our  poet — his  sympathy, 
his  lyric  lightness  of  touch, — above  all,  his  power 
to  speak  to  the  heart. 

There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  doll,  I  know; 
And  your  tea-set  blue, 
And  your  play-house,  too, 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago; 

But  childish  troubles  will  soon  pass  by. — 
There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 
[174] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 

There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  slate,  I  know: 

And  the  glad,  wild  ways 

Of  your  school-girl  days 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago; 

But  life,  and  love  will  soon  come  by. — > 

There!  little  girl;  don't  cry! 

There!  little  girl;  dont  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  heart,  I  know; 

And  the  rainbow  gleams 

Of  your  youthful  dreams 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago; 

But  Heaven  holds  all  for  which  you  sigh — ? 

There!  little  girl;  dont  cry! 

I  beg  to  say,  with  all  deference  to  the  court, 
that  I  would  rather  have  written  this  tiny  poem 
—this  Masterpiece! — than  the  bulk  of  that  correct 
but  lifeless  literature  which  is  honoured  by  critics 
and  neglected  by  the  common  sort  of  humanity. 
It  would,  I  am  sure,  give  me  a  longer,  better  title 
to  remembrance.  Like  the  child's  rattle  found  in 
a  tomb  of  the  great  Pyramid,  it  may  carry  to  some 
remote  age  an  articulate  echo  of  our  literature. 


[175] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 


GOOD  WINE  needs  no  bush,  and  the 
critic  is  dispensed  from  praising  Mr. 
Riley's  poetry  in  detail: — from  Mr.  Howells, 
the  great  man  of  letters,  to  the  humblest  citizen 
of  Boone,  Indiana,  there  is  no  break  in  the 
chorus  of  assent.  The  tribute  is  one  to  person 
ality  as  well  as  literary  power — to  our  best  loved 
Poet!  Mr.  Riley's  poems  are,  literally,  household 
words  throughout  the  land,  and  to  him  more  than 
to  any  other  living  poet  is  granted  the  right  to 
speak  to  our  most  sacred  affections.  Finally,  he 
fulfills  the  test  of  a  great  reputation  backed  by 
equal  performance. 

He  is  a  poet  of  original  impulse  and  inspira 
tion  ;  you  cannot  "  derive  "  him  from  any  set  of 
literary  forbears.  Indeed,  although  he  is  a  con 
summate  artist,  it  would  be  hard  to  prove  a 
literary  motive  against  him.  He  is,  in  short,  one 
of  those  fortunate  artists  who  make  literature 
unconsciously  and,  so  to  say,  without  thinking 
about  it.  The  curse  of  the  self-conscious  pen,  the 
smirk  of  the  literary  egotist  from  which  very 
few  American  writers  have  been  free  (Stevenson 
[176] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 

thought  the  best  of  us  wrote  like  amateurs)  is 
totally  absent  from  his  work. 

He  has  been  content  with  the  simple,  sufficing 
themes  of  life  and  he  has  never  sought  the  ab 
normal,  the  repulsive,  the  unclean.  There  are  no 
"  sugared  sonnets  "  of  his  dedicate  to  covert  or 
esoteric  vice.  He  brings  us  no  fleurs  de  mat;  his 
inspiration  is  not  of  the  brothel,  the  clinic  or  the 
charnel-house.  This  is  not  to  say  that  he  has 
been  afraid  of  life — few  poets  indeed  have  had  so 
keen  an  eye  for  its  dramatic  contrasts,  the  mingled 
arabesque  of  good  and  evil,  the  astounding  al 
ternations  in  the  smallest  scene  of  human  reality 
open  to  the  artist's  eye.  But  his  art,  like  the 
sun's  ray,  is  purifying,  and  the  divine  pity  of  a 
true  poet  transfigures  his  most  painful  subjects. 

His  songs  of  boyhood  and  youth,  with  their 
simple  joys,  their  perfect  faith  and  no  less  perfect 
illusion,  are  his  best;  indeed  I  think  no  poet  that 
might  be  named  has  made  this  province  so  entirely 
his  own  or  left  such  enduring  trophies  there.  Has 
there  ever  been  vouchsafed  through  the  art  of  the 
poet  such  a  vision  of  happy  boyhood  as  Mr.  Riley 
has  given  us  in  "Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's"? 
Where  is  the  man  who  could  read  it  through  with- 

[177] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

out  tears?  The  poem  is  too  long  to  quote  here  in 
full,  and  it  should  not  be  cited  piecemeal;  but  I 
plead  against  myself  for  these  few  verses  that  will 
surely  make  you  want  to  do  your  heart  a  service 
by  looking  it  up  and  re-reading  it  in  the  cherished 
volume. 

Wasn't  it  pleasant,  O  brother  mine, 

In  those  old  days  of  the  lost  sunshine 

Of    youth — when    the    Saturday's    chores    were 

through, 

And  the  "Sunday's  wood"  in  the  kitchen,  too, 
And  we  went  visiting,  " me  and  you" 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's?— 

(f  Me  and  you  "  —And  the  morning  fair, 
With  the  dewdrops  twinkling  everywhere; 
The  scent  of  the  cherry-blossoms  blown 
After  us,  in  the  roadway  lone, 
Our  capering  shadows  onward  thrown — 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's! 

Why,  I  see  her  now  in  the  open  door 

Where  the  little  gourds  grew  up  the  sides  and  o'er 

The  clapboard  roof! — And  her  face — ah,  me! 

Wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  see — 

And  wasn't  it  good  for  a  boy  to  be 

Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's?— 
[178] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 

The  jelly — the  jam  and  the  marmalade, 
And  the  cherry  and  quince  ff  preserves  "  she  made! 
And  the  sweet-sour  pickles  of  peach  and  pear, 
With  cinnamon  in  'em,  and  all  things  rare!— 
And  the  more  we  ate  was  the  more  to  spare, 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's! 

The  honey,  too,  in  its  amber  comb 
One  only  finds  in  an  old  farm-home; 
And  the  coffee,  fragrant  and  sweet,  and  ho! 
So  hot  that  we  gloried  to  drink  it  so, 
With  spangles  of  tears  in  our  eyes,  you  know — 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

And  the  old  spring-house,  in  the  cool  green  gloom 
Of  the  willow  trees, — and  the  cooler  room 
Where  the  swinging  shelves  and  the  crocks  were 

kept, 

Where  the  cream  in  a  golden  languor  slept, 
While  the  waters  gurgled  and  laughed  and  wept— 
Out  to  Old  Aunt  Mary's. 

Is  it  not  but  just  that  he  who  has  restored  the 
heart  of  youth  to  so  many  should  be  dispensed 
by  the  kind  gods  from  growing  old  of  the  spirit 
himself?  , 


[179] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

A  LTHOUGH  a  poet  of  joyous  impulse, 
-^~V  Mr.  Riley's  ear  is  sensitive  to  the  slightest 
tremblings  of  the  minor  chord.  No  poet  has 
made  songs  more  beautiful  to  express  the  pathos 
of  remembered  youth  and  happiness — the  dumb 
regret  for  and  hopeless  striving  to  regain  that 
Paradisal  hour  of  life,  even  in  retrospect,  which 
occupy  so  many  sad  hearts.  Mr.  Riley  touches 
this  chord  with  infinite  tenderness  and  with  a 
power  to  soothe  and  console  which  proves  him 
priest  as  well  as  poet.  And  we  see  very  plainly 
that  to  be  a  good  man  is  a  necessary  condition 
to  being  a  great  poet.  The  Baudelaires  and  the 
Verlaines  have  something  to  say  for  themselves, 
it  is  true,  but  it  is  not  given  them  to  make  such 
verse  as  this: 

We  must  get  home — for  we  have  been  away 
So  long,  it  seems  forever  and  a  day! 
And  O  so  very  homesick  we  have  grown, 
The  laughter  of  the  world  is  like  a  moan 
In  our  tired  hearing,  and  its  songs  as  vain, — 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again! 

We  must  get  home!    There  only  may  we  find 
The  little  playmates  that  we  left  behind, — 
[180] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 

Some  racing  down  the  road;  some  by  the  brook; 
Some  droning  at  their  desks,  with  wistful  look 
Across  the  fields  and  orchards — farther  still 
Where  laughs  and  weeps  the  old  wheel  at  the  mill. 

We  must  get  home;  and,  unremembering  there 
All  gain  of  all  ambition  otherwhere, 
Rest — from  the  feverish  victory,  and  the  crown 
Of  conquest  whose  waste  glory  weighs  us  down  — 
Fame's  fairest  gifts  we  toss  back  with  disdain— 
We  must  get  home — we  must  get  home  again! 

The  difficulty  of  writing  such  verse  without 
lapsing  into  false  sentiment  is  proven  by  the 
utter  failure  of  Mr.  Riley's  imitators  (no  poet 
has  ever  had  more)  to  produce  anything  like  a 
passable  copy  of  this  phase  of  his  art.  There 
have  been  many — alas,  too  many  attempts;  but 
no  mimic  has  ever  succeeded  in  getting  a  foot 
within  the  sanctuary! 


I    HAVE  pointed  out,  in  a  discussion  of  the 
so-called  "  free  poets,"  that  we  are  in  some 
danger  of  being  carried  away  from  the  primary 
function   of   poetry.      It    seems    the    poets    don't 
want  to  sing  any  more;  they  want  to  do  some- 

[181] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

thing  else,  and  there  is  a  great  wrangle  and 
controversy  going  on  as  to  the  nature  and  value 
of  this  substitute  form  of  entertainment. 

Mr.  Riley  has  never  been  troubled  by  any 
doubts  as  to  the  leading  function  and  business  of 
the  poet: — he  knows  that  it  is  to  sing,  and  it  is 
as  a  singer  pure  and  simple  that  he  has  won  his 
dearest  laurels.  His  music  is  varied,  ingenious, 
sometimes  a  shade  fantastic;  but  he  never  sings 
merely  for  the  tune;  always  the  poetic  thought 
has  precedence.  Sometimes  his  passion  for  pure 
music  and  melody — as  instinctive  as  that  of  the 
thrush  or  the  bobolink — tempts  him  to  a  feat  of 
rhymed  extravagance,  a  bit  of  roulade,  or  if  you 
please,  a  display  of  poetic  fireworks;  for  which 
I  at  least  would  not  greatly  quarrel  with  him. 
There  are  moods  when  the  mere  beauty  of  a 
poet's  rhythmic  words  steals  the  soul  with  delight, 
and  the  intellect  also  yields  itself  a  willing  captive 
to  the  spell.  No  poet  has  a  more  sovereign 
charm  for  the  dolce  far  niente  moods  than  Mr. 
Riley: — such  famous  and  familiar  charming  as 
this,  for  example: 

Beyond  the  purple,  hazy  trees 
Of  summer's  utmost  boundaries; 

[182] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 


Beyond  the  sands  —  beyond  the 
Beyond  the  range  of  eyes  like  these, 
And  only  in  the  reach  of  the 
Enraptured  gaze  of  memory, 
There  lies  a  land,  long  lost  to  me,  — 
The  land  of  Used-to-be! 

A  land  where  music  ever  girds 

The  air  with  belts  of  singing  -birds, 

And  sows  all  sounds  with  such  sweet  words, 

That  even  in  the  low  of  herds 
A  meaning  lives  so  sweet  to  me, 
Lost  laughter  ripples  limpidly 
From  lips  brimmed  over  with  the  glee 
Of  rare  old  Used-to-be. 

Lost  laughter,  and  the  whistled  tunes 
Of  boyhood's  mouth  of  crescent  runes, 
That  rounded,  through  long  afternoons; 
To  serenading  plenilunes— 
When  starlight  fell  so  mistily 
That,  peering  up  from  bended  knee, 
I  dreamed  'twas  bridal  drapery 
Snowed  over  Used-to-be! 

This  is  mere  "  instrumentation,"  if  you  please, 
the  artist  running  his  octaves  in  the  sheer  bravery 
of  his  skill  (with  one  eye  on  the  admiring  audi- 

[183] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

ence!) — but  who  can  deny  the  charm  and  delight 

of  it?   , 


TURN  WE  again  to  his  graver  moods,  and 
above  all,  to  his  mastery  of  simple  pathos. 
Mr.  Riley's  power  as  a  magician  enables  him  to 
use  the  plainest  words,  the  most  obvious  rhymes, 
in  the  highest  service  of  beauty.  His  poems  are 
taken  from  the  heart  of  life  and  reflect  a  power 
of  observation,  an  eye  for  dramatic  values,  a 
grasp  of  human  nature  that  mark  him  off  from 
the  run  of  lyrical  poets.  His  work  is  intensely 
vital,  personal,  realized:  one  is  always  held,  chal 
lenged,  fascinated  by  the  story  behind  it. 
One  feels  too  that  the  poet  has  lived  all  of  these 
pieces;  that  they  could  not  otherwise  have  been 
created. 

Mr.  Riley  as  a  born  poet  and  a  true  craftsman 
loves  rhymes  (and  we  love  him  for  it),  yet  he 
rarely,  if  ever,  falls  into  Poe's  vice  of  laboured 
assonance  and  perverse  rhyming.  Yes,  there's 
"  Leonainie,"  but  that  we  know  was  done  "  on 
purpose,"  a  tour  de  force,  and  a  wonderful  take 
off  it  is  of  the  Poesque  manner.  By  the  way, 
his  "  Songs  after  Master-Singers  "  are  delightful 
[184] 


OUR  BEST-LOVED  POET 

essays  in  this  sort  of  writing:  they  are  better 
poetry  in  themselves  and  far  more  striking 
"  imitations  "  —reproductions  rather — than  Eu 
gene  Field's  exercises  in  kind. 

Brilliant,  various,  versatile,  prolific  as  he  is, 
Mr.  Riley  has  never  lost  sight  of  the  integrity  of 
his  art;  never  permitted  himself  to  be  seduced 
and  carried  away  by  the  lure  of  mere  cleverness. 
All  this  says  much  for  the  restraint  of  the  artist, 
seeing  that  he  has  been  far-and-away  the  most 
popular  American  poet  of  our  time  and  the  most 
solicited  of  publishers. 

I  am  aware  that  certain  critics  deplore  the  lack 
of  "  intellectual  content  "  in  much  of  Mr.  Riley's 
poetry,  and  they  find  fault  with  the  simple  itera 
tions  and  alliterations  which  bid  so  cunningly 
for  the  ear.  But  who  can  deny  its  appeal  to 
the  heart,  or  its  power  to  evoke  the  earliest, 
happiest  emotions  of  life?  And  it  is  justified  in 
the  only  fashion  that  poetry  need  be  justified— 
it  has  been  taken  into  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
The  high-brows  may  cavil  as  they  please,  and 
the  new  school  of  "  free  poets  "  utterly  protest 
the  music  and  the  unfading  garland.  But  the 
fact  remains  that  to  be  so  accepted  of  the  people 

[185] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

is  the  grandest  and  proudest  distinction  that  even 
a  great  poet  may  aspire  to. 

Mr.  Riley  was  born  to  be  the  adored  laureate 
of  a  close-knit,  homogeneous  people: — this  we 
see  by  the  attitude  of  his  native  Indiana.  Our 
ever-changing  citizenship  forbids  such  a  distinc 
tion  in  the  largest  sense;  but  it  may  at  least  be 
said  that  in  our  day  this  crowning  honour  has 
not  fallen  to  any  American  poet  in  such  measure 
and  with  such  depth  of  love  and  admiration  as 
have  been  accorded  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


[186] 


SIX 

ALMA  LUPA 

THE  LATE  Elbert  Hubbard  used  to  gibe  and 
poke  fun  at  the  colleges  and  the  classics  with 
a  careless  freedom  that  argued  no  responsibility 
toward  either.  Perhaps,  from  the  utilitarian  point 
of  view,  he  had  a  certain  right  to  do  so,  and  his 
own  case  furnished  him  strong,  if  not  entirely  con 
vincing,  arguments — for  the  man  of  positive  talent 
breaks  all  rules. 

There  was  much  force  in  his  contention  against 
wasting  time  on  dead  languages,  but  of  course  one 
must  be  sure  that  the  languages  so  described  are 
really  defunct.  Latin  and  Greek  certainly  are  not, 
as  a  schoolboy  may  satisfy  himself  by  glancing 
into  any  good  English  dictionary.  Elbert's  argu 
ment,  though  clever  and  spirited,  was  far  from 
being  a  new  one — the  advantages  and  disadvan 
tages  of  classical  training  have  been  accurately 
assessed  these  many  years.  It  is  quite  true  that 
such  culture  would  be  wasted  on  the  majority  of 

[187] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

young  Americans,  who  simply  have  no  use  for  it. 
Not  that  Elbert  had  so  frittered  away  any  part 
of  his  youth:  his  Alma  Mater  having  been  (as  he 
liked  to  say)  the  University  of  Hard  Knocks. 
But  the  dispute  has  other  phases  than  that  which 
challenged  the  keenly  practical,  yet  sufficiently 
idealistic,  mind  of  Elbert  Hubbard.  For  one 
thing  he  quite  overlooked  our  debt  to  the  Renais 
sance:  indeed  like  other  able  men,  largely  self- 
taught,  he  did  not  realize  how  much  he  owed  to 
Latin  and  Greek. 

Again,  I  will  grant  that  Colonel  Ingersoll's  defi 
nition  of  a  college  as  a  place  where  "  pebbles  are 
polished  and  diamonds  are  dimmed,"  holds  a  par 
tial  truth.  (Like  Hubbard,  he  was  unduly  preju 
diced  by  his  dislike  for  the  ministerial  profession— 
a  rub  of  the  classics  wouldn't  have  hurt  the  literary 
style  of  either  man.)  Furthermore,  I  am  glad  to 
see  a  good  deal  of  the  "  superstition "  of  the 
classics  done  away  with,  and  I  think  it  no  bad 
thing  that  the  world  is  fast  losing  its  reverence 
for  the  "  donkey  loaded  with  Latin."  Many  a 
fool  has  got  by  to  honour  and  preferment  on  no 
better  grounds. 

And  yet,  while  conceding  so  much,  I  must  still 
[188] 


ALMA  LUPA 

hold  that  for  the  scholar,  artist  or  literary  man, 
the  good  old  classics,  even  in  veiy  moderate  infu 
sion,  have  a  value  beyond  price.  They  stamp  his 
soul  with  the  precise  image  of  Liberty,  the  most 
precious  bequest  from  the  ancient  world.  They 
impress  his  mind  with  the  Law  of  Beauty.  They 
instil  into  him  reverence  for  what  is  noble — hatred 
and  contempt  for  what  is  mean  and  base.  They 
teach  him  restraint  and  economy  of  expression- 
qualities  rarely  seen  in  a  writer  without  classic 
foundation.  (I  would  rather  that  Bernard  Shaw 
had  learned  Latin  than  music — it  would  have  saved 
us  some  terrible  loquacity.)  In  short,  they  teach 
him  his  own  language — no  man  lacking  the  Latin 
discipline  can  be  said  to  know  English  compe 
tently,  that  is,  with  the  knowledge  requisite  to  a 
literary  artist.  (Again  I  waive  the  exceptions 
which  genius  is  always  privileged  to  make.)  What 
is  so  much  of  modern  literature  but  a  palimpsest 
over-writing  (and  be  sure  at  the  same  time,  under- 
writing)  of  the  thoughts  of  the  classic  past? 
Wanting  the  clue  to  this  ever  fertile  tradition,  the 
writer  has  missed  something  vital,  yet  intangible 
and  indefinable,  which  no  amount  of  talent  or  skill 
or  energy  can  supply. 

[189] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

And  this  something  is  the  quintessence  of  style 
and  thought,  the  heirloom  of  classic  culture  passed 
on  to  us  by  hundreds  of  generations. 

What  is  it  accosts  you  at  once  in  the  pages  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  say  the  "  Familiar 
Studies  "  or  the  "  Travels  with  a  Donkey"?  The 
expression — for  the  story  is  always  a  matter  of 
secondary  importance.  Sickness  did  not  permit 
this  writer  to  live  the  life  of  adventure  that  he 
longed  for  in  order  to  vitalize  his  creations:  yet 
he  never  fails  to  lure  us  with  the  grand  adventure 
of  his  style.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  a  less  thrill 
ing  tale  than  "  An  Inland  Voyage/'  as  regards 
hair-raising  experiences  of  the  Count  Fathom 
order,  and  it  would  be  still  harder  to  match  among 
the  great  travellers  and  adventurers  the  beauty 
of  such  a  page  as  this: 

'  When  Villon  journeyed  (perhaps  by  the  same 
pleasant  valley)  to  his  exile  at  Rousillon,  I  won 
der  if  he  had  not  something  of  the  same  appear 
ance.  Something  of  the  same  preoccupation  he 
had  beyond  a  doubt,  for  he  too  must  have  tinkered 
verses  as  he  walked  with  more  success  than  his 
successor.  And  if  he  had  anything  like  the  same 
inspiring  weather,  the  same  nights  of  uproar,  men 

[190] 


ALMA  LUPA 

in  armour  rolling  and  resounding  down  the  stairs 
of  heaven,  the  rain  hissing  on  the  village  streets, 
the  wild  bull's-eye  of  the  storm  flashing  all  night 
long  into  the  bare  innerchamber — the  same  sweet 
return  of  day,  the  same  unfathomable  blue  of 
noon,  the  same  high-coloured  halcyon  eves,  and 
above  all,  if  he  had  anything  like  as  good  a  com 
rade,  anything  like  as  keen  a  relish  for  what  he 
saw,  and  what  he  ate,  and  the  rivers  he  bathed 
in,  and  the  rubbish  that  he  wrote,  I  would  ex 
change  estates  to-day  with  the  poor  exile,  and 
count  myself  a  gainer.  ..." 


In  pure  literature  the  French  have  a  great 
superiority  over  the  English.  Why?  Because 
they  derive  so  much  from  the  classic  tradition, 
their  language,  the  finest  literary  instrument  in 
the  world,  being  founded  almost  entirely  upon 
Latin.  And  the  Latin  blood  counts,  too,  of  course. 
How  poor  would  modern  literature  be  without 
Balzac,  Hugo,  Dumas,  Musset,  St.  Beuve,  Guizot, 
Lamartine,  Taine,  Renan,  Flaubert,  Daudet, 
Maupassant,  Anatole  France!  Matthew  Arnold 
indeed  was  of  the  opinion  that  as  Latin  has  come 
in  a  large  sense  to  represent  Greek,  so  in  course  of 
time  French  will  come  to  stand  for  Latin.  But 

[191] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

the  spirit  of  culture  will  take  care  that  in  such 
an  evolution  nothing  shall  be  lost.   .    .    . 

A  little  of  the  She- Wolf's  milk,  then,  if  you 
please!  No  true  man  of  letters  ever  regretted  his 
nurture  at  that  rugged  but  kindly  breast:  his  head 
and  heart  were  surely  the  better  for  it.  And  it 
is  still  a  potent,  perhaps  indispensable,  element 
in  the  making  of  literature  that  endures. 


[192] 


SEVEN 

A   NOTE   ON   LAFCADIO   HEARN 

IS  THERE  any  sort  of  reproach  or  bar  sinister 
in  the  fact  of  a  literary  man  having  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins,  in  his  belonging  much  or  little 
to  the  most  deeply  spiritualized  poetic  race  in  the 
world?  That  vision  of  the  invisible  world  which 
is  the  delight  and  the  despair  of  poets,  to  whom 
has  it  been  given  in  fuller  measure  than  to  the 
Celt?  Those  preoccupations  of  the  soul  which 
token  an  immortal  destiny,  those  strivings  to  re 
gain  an  eternal  inheritance  which  mark  a  people 
of  the  spirit,  what  race  do  they  indicate  with  a 
clearer  stigma?  Is  not  the  entire  history  of  the 
Celt  a  rejection  of  the  things  of  this  world  for 
the  Shadow  and  the  Dream?  .  .  . 

Yet  one  might  think  there  was  some  reproach, 
or  inferiority,  or  even  degradation  implied  in  the 
Irish  name,  judging  from  occasional  hints  dropped 
by  illiberal,  or  superficial,  or  perhaps  merely 
careless  persons.  For  instance,  Mr.  F.  Hadland 

[193] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

0 

Davis,  an  Englishman,  writing  about  Lafcadio 
Hearn  in  an  American  periodical,  and  writing  ex 
ceedingly  well  in  the  main,  has  this  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  his  racial  inheritance  as  accounting  for 
some  of  the  characteristics  of  his  literary  genius: 

"Can  we  in  any  way  account  for  Hearn's  deli 
cate,  sensuous  and  ghostly  style?  I  can  suggest 
two  possible,  but  by  no  means  exhaustive,  reasons 
— viz.,  his  birth  and  the  fact  that  he  suffered  from 
myopia.  This  method  of  procedure  rather  savours 
of  chemical  analysis,  only  in  this  particular  case  we 
know  the  salt  is  called  genius,  and  we  work  back, 
on  quite  unscientific  lines,  to  try  and  find  some 
of  the  factors  in  producing  it.  Hearn' s  parentage 
was  interesting.  He  had  Greek  and  Romany 
blood  in  his  veins.  The  Greek  accounted  for  his 
unquenchable  love  of  the  beautiful  in  everything 
he  saw,  combined  with  an  almost  equal  love  of  the 
horrible;  and  the  Romany  for  the  fact  that  he 
was  one  of  the  world's  wanderers." 

The  suggestion  of  Hearn's  myopia  as  a  forma 
tive  influence  in  his  style,  an  idea  that  originated 
with  the  eccentric  Dr.  Gould,  I  have  treated  else 
where.  But  is  it  not  singular  that  a  writer  so 
well  informed  as  Mr.  Davis — he  claims  to  have 
[194] 


A  NOTE  ON  LAFCADIO  HEARN 

read  all  Hearn's  books  and  nearly  everything  pub 
lished  about  him! — should  ignore  the  fact,  obvious 
and  indisputable,  of  Hearn's  Irish  blood?  The 
attempt  on  the  part  of  Miss  Bisland,  his  first 
biographer,  to  trace  his  Irish  forbears  on  the  pater 
nal  side  back  to  1693,  when  they  were  Dorsetshire 
English,  seems  a  rather  foolish  piece  of  pedigree 
making.  It  certainly  was  unjustified  by  the  facts. 
There  were  mingled  elements  in  Hearn's  blood, 
but  he  was  more  Irish  than  anything  else.  Those 
who  knew  the  living  man  never  doubted  it,  and  to 
my  mind  at  least,  his  genius  yields  the  strongest 
proofs  of  Celtic  derivation. 

This  is  not  the  first  time  Hearn's  racial  ante 
cedents  have  been  made  to  bear  an  invidious  note. 
Mr.  Davis  seems  to  share  an  ugly,  and  I  had  be 
lieved,  extinct  prejudice  with  Miss  Bisland,  which 
prejudice  is  the  more  to  be  regretted,  since  her 
work  in  most  other  respects  is  deserving  of  liberal 
praise ;  while  her  slightly  romantic  friendship  with 
Hearn  gives  her  a  claim  of  esteem  upon  all  who 
are  interested  in  the  writer  and  the  man.  Her 
motives  were,  bien  entendu,  of  the  worthiest,  to 
throw  something  of  a  picturesque  glow  about  a 
life  that  in  its  earlier  years  sorely  needed  it— 

[195] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

that  held  in  truth  overmuch  darktiess  and  suffer 
ing.  But  in  writing  as  she  did,  about  Hearn's 
early  family  and  religious  associations,  with  her 
intense  womanly  sympathies  touched  to  the  quick 
and  her  feelings  more  exercised  than  her  judg 
ment,  I  suspect  Miss  Bisland  did  not  render  the 
best  possible  service  to  his  memory. 

Hearn  himself  was  partly  to  blame  for  the  un 
disguised  prejudice  evinced  by  his  biographer.  He 
had  suffered  much  in  his  shy  myopic  youth;  he 
had  been  ill-understood  and  harshly  treated,  and 
in  some  confused  way  he  had  lost  home  and 
friends.  All  this  was  not  clear  to  Hearn  himself, 
or  at  least  he  gave  no  clear  account  of  it.  I  be 
lieve  also  that  Hearn  romanced  about  the  sordid 
circumstances  of  his  youth,  and  that  simply  from 
the  quality  of  his  imagination.  There  is  little  in 
what  he  tells  to  put  a  sure  finger  on;  rather,  most 
of  it  seems  of  a  nightmare  unreality.  Hearn 
began  early  to  brood  over  and  fashion  that  ap 
propriate  legend  of  himself  with  which  every  artist 
is  more  or  less  preoccupied.  He  indulged  this 
usually  harmless  passion  to  an  extreme  degree, 
until  he  had  at  one  time  hallucinated  himself  into 
the  notion  that  he  was  the  object  of  a  systematic, 
[196] 


A  NOTE  ON  LAFCADIO  HEARN 

malignant  persecution  by  priests  of  the  religion  in 
which  he  had  been  brought  up.  But  close  readers 
of  his  work,  including  his  letters  (like  Mr.  Davis, 
I  may  claim  to  be  one)  know  that  in  his  later 
years  he  softened  considerably  and  opened  his 
mind  to  saner  views.  I  believe  even  that  he 
learned  to  laugh  at  his  pet  bugaboo  of  Jesuitic 
persecution. 

Finally,  with  his  partial  disillusionment  regard 
ing  Japan,  notable  in  his  last  years,  the  pendulum 
is  seen  swinging  back  for  Hearn,  and  the  imme 
morial  claims  of  race  and  blood  are  felt  to  be 
striving  within  him  for  reassertion. 

In  spite  of  home  and  wife  and  children,  in  spite 
of  Japanese  name  and  all,  nay,  in  spite  of  the 
literary  glory  that  Japan  had  yielded  him,  I 
believe  he  was  never  less  attached  to  the  strange 
land  of  his  adoption  than  in  the  last  year  of  his 
life.  Something  of  the  change  must  be  referred, 
of  course,  to  the  loss  of  his  place  in  the  Imperial 
University,  and  his  personal  experience  of  the 
darker  traits  of  Japanese  character,  traits  which 
are  indeed  common  to  East  and  West.  But  I 
believe  a  deeper  explanation  is  called  for,  if  we 
would  truly  estimate  this  final  phase  of  Hearn's 

[197] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

thought.  A  man  can  not  add*  a  cubit  to  his 
stature  by  thinking,  nor  can  he  remake  himself 
as  to  his  racial  and  spiritual  inheritance.  Lafcadio 
Hearn  remained  Celtic  in  soul,  spite  of  his  many 
years  in  Japan,  spite  of  his  immersion  in  the 
myths  and  creeds  of  a  strange  people,  spite  even 
of  what  he  believed  to  be  a  sincere  preference  of 
Buddha  to  Christ.  Oh,  yes,  the  pendulum  was 
swinging  back  for  Lafcadio  Hearn!  Man  is  unto 
himself  a  mystery:  by  ways  strange  and  un 
dreamed  of,  across  the  opposing  currents  of  a 
lifetime,  the  soul  of  a  race  wins  back  to  its 
own. 


[198] 


EIGHT 

THE   KISS 

1RISE  to  a  point  of  order.  There  is  altogether 
too  much  kissing  in  the  magazines  and  Sunday 
newspaper  supplements;  also  in  the  asbestos  fav 
ourites  of  the  Circulating  Library.  Two  arts  are 
hereby  joined  in  the  indictment,  for  the  literary 
offence  is  no  less  culpable  than  the  pictorial  crime. 
A  kiss  in  one  of  the  Hearst  magazines,  for  ex 
ample,  is  almost  equal  to  a  statutory  misdemean 
our,  and  it  makes  the  guileless  reader  particeps 
criminis.  The  artist  always  aims  at  the  maximum 
of  expression  and  effect,  for  the  popular  maga 
zine  is  expected  literally  to  kiss  itself  into  public 
favour.  Each  month  its  gay-tinted  cover  bears  the 
likeness  of  some  pretty  courtesan  with  rosy  beak 
pouted  for  the  kiss.  There  is  no  mistaking  the 
Hearst  girls  among  the  many  Cyprians  of  the 
magazine  trade : — they  have  a  way  about  them  that 
is  distinctly  their  own  and  that  only  the  connois 
seurs  of  love  fully  appreciate. 

[199] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

A  sort  of  orgy  of  osculation  rages  throughout 
the  world  of  current  fiction  and  magazinedom,  and 
the  kiss  is  being  passed  around  as  an  exceedingly 
good  thing.  A  popular  novelist  like  Mr.  Cham 
bers  is  generally  rated  by  his  kiss — I  mean  his 
manner  of  describing  and  realizing  for  the  reader 
that  species  of  caress  between  two  persons  of  op 
posite  sex.  Upon  this  he  (or  she)  lavishes  all  the 
resources  of  his  word-painting  and  all  his  power  of 
suggestion.  Likewise  the  popular  artist  is  es 
teemed  for  his  skill  in  depicting  the  kiss,  in  sur 
rounding  it  with  all  those  yum-yum  attributes 
which  are  better  felt  than  described;  at  the  same 
time  avoiding  any  license  too  gross  which  might 
give  puritanism  the  alarm.  It  is  a  subtle  and  deli 
cate  art,  and  no  wonder  that  those  who  excel  at 
it  command  astonishing  emoluments.  Women  are 
very  partial  to  it,  as  the  kiss  is  the  symbol  of  their 
power  and  charm;  and  the  popular  magazine  is, 
above  all  things,  concerned  with  milady's  approval. 
So  even  the  discreet  Mr.  Bok  makes  much  of  the 
kiss,  both  in  text  and  illustration;  but  it  is  of  the 
special  "  Ladies'  Home  Journal  "  brand,  if  you 
please,  sterilized  and,  as  it  were,  too  good  to  be 
true ;  not  in  the  least  like  the  frank  aphrodisiac  of 
[200] 


THE  KISS 

the  monthly  "  Hearsts."  Mr.  Bok's  kissing  girls 
never  make  you  feel  that  you  have  seen 
them  under  the  "  white  lights,"  or  that  they  are 
out  to  sell  anything — except  the  "  Ladies'  Home 
Journal." 

The  word  kiss,  you  will  observe,  is  of  the  class 
of  vocables  called  onomatopoeic — words  that  mimic 
the  sound  of  the  thing  signified;  and  in  a  sense, 
onomatopoeic  must  be  the  art  that  renders  it. 

Magazine  fiction  offers  us  all  sorts  and  varieties 
of  kisses, — passionate,  burning,  lingering,  languor 
ous,  Lesbian  (the  kind  that  makes  you  thrill  all 
along  the  keel  and  gives  the  uttermost  sensation 
of  goneness) ;  kisses  soulful,  ecstatic,  exalted, 
kisses  pleading  and  importunate,  kisses  that  mad 
den  and  intoxicate,  kisses  that  do  everything  but 
deny.  There  are  kisses  that  lead  to  nothing  worse 
than  matrimony  and  a  eugenic  family,  and  there 
be  kisses  that  conduct  to  paresis  and  the  padded 
cell.  Have  a  care  then  in  making  your  choice,  for 
many's  the  man  whose  undoing  is  determined  by 
a  kiss.  For  indeed  the  kiss  is  the  woman,  and  the 
woman  is  your  fate! 

Persons  of  curious  competency  in  this  province 
tell  us  that  the  kiss  between  lovers  yields  a  minor 

[201] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

satisfaction  of  desire:  it  is  a  pledge,  a  promise,  an 
I  O  U  of  the  inexorable  Eros,  a  prelude  to  pos 
session: — the  kissed  mouth  will  have  the  rest,  says 
Balzac. 

Maupassant  observes  that  the  kiss  is  only  a  pref 
ace  to  the  Book  of  Love,  but  a  charming  preface, 
more  delicious  than  the  volume  itself;  a  preface 
that  one  can  re-read  constantly  with  ever  unsated 
pleasure,  while  one  is  not  always  able  to  re-read 
— the  book! 

The  same  instructed  artist  describes  the  kiss  as 
the  most  perfect,  the  most  divine  sensation  given  to 
human  beings, — the  last,  the  supreme  limit  of  hap 
piness.  It  is  in  the  kiss,  in  the  kiss  alone,  that 
we  believe  we  can  sometimes  feel  that  impossible 
union  of  souls  of  which  we  dream — perhaps  only 
the  hallucination  of  fainting  hearts.  The  kiss 
alone  gives  this  profound,  immaterial  sensation  of 
two  beings  that  are  as  one.  All  the  violent  delir 
ium  of  complete  possession  is  not  worth  that  trem 
bling  approach  of  the  lips,  that  first  touch  moist 
and  sweet,  and  then  that  kiss  silent,  motionless, 
rapturous,  and  long,  so  long!  to  both. 

Byron's  description  is  better  known  to  English 
readers : — 
[202] 


THE  KISS 

A  long,  long  kiss,  a  kiss  of  youth  and  love 

And  beauty,  all  concentrating  like  rays 

Into  one  focus  kindled  from  above; 

Such  kisses  as  belong  to  early  days, 

When  heart  and  soul  and  sense  in  concert  move, 

When  the  mind's  lava  and  the  pulse  a  blaze. 

Certain  rigid  moralists  hold  that  the  woman 
who  gives  her  lips  to  a  man  without  lawful  war 
rant  abandons  herself  as  effectively  as  if  she  gave 
all.  .  .  . 

This  is  perhaps  going  too  far,  but  undoubtedly 
the  kiss  is  a  rare  good  thing,  and  we  are  pass 
ing  it  around  joyously — at  least  in  the  maga 
zines.  .  .  . 

The  kiss  is  woman's  supreme  weapon,  her  most 
potent  and  subtle  means  of  seduction;  not  Caesar, 
not  Attila,  nor  Napoleon  might  prevail  against  it. 
For  verily  the  kiss  has  conquered  nations,  torn 
up  treaties,  laid  kingdoms  desolate,  founded  or 
destroyed  religions,  suppressed  dynasties  and 
changed  the  order  of  royal  states. 

It  is  also,  as  we  have  seen,  important  to  the 
prosperity  of  magazines,  the  fame  of  authors  and 
the  reputation  of  artists. 

Oddly  enough,  the  kiss,  as  we  practise  it  in  the 

[203] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

West,  is  a  stumbling  block  and  an  offence  to  some 
Eastern  peoples,  who  are  thereby  moved  to  look 
askance  at  our  morality.  One  hates  to  admit  the 
fact,  but  those  remote  pagans,  Buddhists  or  what 
not,  unblessed  with  the  "  Ladies'  Home  Journal " 
or  the  Hearst  magazines  (those  disseminators  of 
culture,  sweetness  and  light)  seem  to  have  a 
more  correct  moral  feeling  than  ourselves  in  this 
regard. 

:<  Let  the  reader  reflect  for  a  moment,"  says 
Lafcadio  Hearn,*  "  how  large  a  place  the  subject 
of  kisses  and  caresses  and  embraces  occupies  in  our 
poetry  and  in  our  prose  fiction;  and  then  let  him 
consider  the  fact  that  in  Japanese  literature  these 
have  no  existence  whatever.  Such  actions,  except 
in  the  case  of  infants,  are  held  to  be  highly  im 
modest."  Elsewhere  he  points  out  that  the  Jap 
anese  regard  the  kiss  as  peculiarly  sexual  in  its 
nature,  and  that  they  refrain  from  it,  except  in  the 
most  private  circumstances,  as  from  an  indecency. 
Even  at  social  functions  of  a  free  character  where 
geisha  are  in  attendance  and  sake  is  drunk  without 
restraint,  a  Japanese  guest  is  never  known  to  kiss 
or  embrace  these  girls,  dedicate  to  pleasure  as  they 

*  See  chapter  on  the  "  Eternal  Feminine  "  in  "  Out  of  the  East." 

[204] 


THE  KISS 

are:  this  infraction  of  good  form  is  reserved  to 
foreigners.   .    .    . 

But  "  East  is  East  and  West  is  West  and  "- 
I  refuse  to  go  farther  with  Mr.  Kipling.  In  our 
half  of  the  world  sex  is  deemed  the  salt  of  litera 
ture  as  of  life,  in  spite  of  a  conventional  hypocrisy 
which  would  pretend  to  "  wave  "  it,  in  Podsnap- 
pian  fashion,  out  of  existence. 

So  it  is  that,  by  a  shrewd  compromise  with  our 
inherited  puritanism,  we  have  perfumed  and 
prettified  sex  in  the  persons  of  Gibson  girls  and 
"  Bambi  "  heroines,  and  are  enabled  to  pass  around 
the  kiss  as  a  good  thing. 

Vive  le  baiser! 


[205] 


NINE 


THE  "  FREE  "   POETS 


OH,  WHAT  is  the  matter  with  the  young 
"  free  "  poets?  Why  are  they  so  pale,  as  if 
they  drank  cumin,  or  were  exhausted  by  love? 
They  boast  of  their  freedom,  yet  are  they  not 
happy.  Oh,  what's  the  matter  with  the  young 
poets,  and  especially,  why  don't  they  write  some 
poetry?  Sacred  Apollo!  can  this  be  the  matter 
with  the  young  poets? 

Again  I  ask,  what's  the  matter  with  the  young 
poets?  It  is  proper  that  they  should  be  in  revolt 
against  something — nay,  anything;  but  by  the  holy 
Nine,  not  against  poetry  itself!  Why  do  they 
write  so  much  prose — they  with  their  loudly  pro 
fessed  hatred  of  journalism  and  their  contempt  for 
the  perishable  word?  Why  don't  they  use  up  their 
hot  young  blood  in  making  love  and  poetry?  Did 
not  Musset  show  them  how  when  he  poetically 
mounted  on  his  funeral  pyre  with  Dejanire? 
Have  they  never  heard  of  Catullus,  Villon,  Ron- 
[206] 


THE  "  FREE  "  POETS 

sard,  Shelley,  and  Keats?  Let  them  write  their 
golden  poems  now  and  postpone  their  smart  pros 
ing  to  middle  age — it  will  be  on  them  unawares! 
Hearken,  ye  rebellious  but  impotent  young 
poets,  to  one  that  was  also  young  in  his  day  and 
especially  a  Poet ! — Hark  ye  to  Catullus,  and  note 
how  fresh  that  silver  voice  throbbing  with  love  and 
youth  and  desire  rings  out  from  the  tomb  of 
centuries. 

Vivamus,  mea  Lesbia,  atque  amemus! 

Soles  occidere  et  redire  possunt: 
Nobis,  cum  semel  occidit  brevis  lux, 
Nox  est  perpetua  una  dormienda. 

There  is  no  translating  the  solemn  music  of  the 
Latin,  but  I  venture  to  English  the  lines  rudely, 
that  no  reader  may  have  a  quarrel  with  me. 

Let  us  live,  my  Lesbia,  and  let  us  love. 
The  suns  set,  yet  do  they  ever  return; 
For  us,  when  once  our  brief  light  flickers  out, 
Comes  the  night  endless  of  perpetual  sleep. 

Da  mi  basia  mille— "  Give  me  a  thousand 
kisses!"  he  cries,  and  so  his  life  flutters  out  in 
a  flame  of  passion  at  thirty-three.  But  those  lines 

[207] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

» 

to  Lesbia,  with  their  melody  more  magical  than 
that  of  Memnon's  statue,  "  which  at  sunrise 
played,"  will  outlast  the  Pyramids.  Nay,  not  the 
less  will  endure  his  exquisite  lament  for  his  lady's 
sparrow,  which— 

Nee  sese  a  gremio  illius  movebat, 

Sed  circumsiliens  modo  hue  modo  illuc, 

Ad  solam  dominam  usque  pipilabat. 

(Nor  wandered  far  from  her  bosom,  but  hopping 
about  now  here,  now  there,  still  kept  piping  to  his 
one  dear  mistress.) 

Ah,  that  little  sparrow-pet  of  the  darling  Lesbia, 
still  chirping — pipilans — though  Rome  itself  has 
been  swept  away  since  the  song  began! 

List  ye  now  to  the  prattling  waters  of  Horace's 
perennial  fountain — and  tell  me  that  poetry  as 
good  can  be  made  without  music.  No,  no!  the 
gods  still  possess  their  secret. 

O  fons  Bandusiae  splendidior  vitro 

Pies  nobilium  tu  quoque  fontium, 
Me  dicente  cavis  impositam  ilicem 

Saocis,  unde,  loquaces 

Lymphae  desiliunt  tuae. 

[208] 


THE  "  FREE  "  POETS 

Do  you  hear  the  immortal  prattling  of  that 
fountain  of  living  water,  and  can  you  in  your  con 
ceit  imagine  any  other  formula  of  art  and  poesy 
that  would  have  brought  its  music  down  to 
us?  .  .  . 

I  scarce  dare  offer  this  poor  paraphrase  of  my 
own  to  the  unclassically  tuned  reader. 

O  fountain  of  Eandusia, 

Than  crystal  e'en  more  clear, 

Thou  shalt  be  deemed  most  noble, 

Since  I  have  sung  thee  here, 
And  the  oak  thy  dear  companion 

From  hollow  rocks  upspringing, 
Whence  thy  waters  downward  leap 

With  a  prattling  and  a  singing. 

Or  lend  an  ear  while  charmingly  he  coaxes 
Phyllis  to  make  one  at  un  petit  souper  a  deux  at 
the  Sabine  Farm,  for  which  he  tells  her  there  has 
been  provided  a  cask  of  nine-year  Alban: — plenty 
to  drink,  i'  faith!  "  Come  now,  last  of  my  loves," 
he  entreats  (I  know  not  how  candidly)-  "for 
after  this  I  shall  never  glow  for  another 
woman." — 

[209] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

« 

Age,  jam,  meorum 
Finis  amorum 

(Non  enim  posthac  alia  calebo 
Femina),  condisce  modos,  amanda 
Voce  quos  reddas:  minuentur  atrae 

Carmine  curae,. 

Learn  with  me  the  sweet  measures  (he  pleads) 
which  you  shall  then  intone  in  your  most  lovely 
voice.  Black  cares  shall  flee  away  before  our 
song.  .  .  . 

And  a  late  brother  of  these  two  children  of  the 
She- Wolf,  the  scarcely  less  divine  Musset,  how 
sings  he  this  immortal  pain  and  rapture  of  the 
poet?  .  .  . 

Poete,  prends  ton  luth;  le  vin  de  la  jeunesse 
Fermente  cette  nuit  dans  les  veines  de  Dieu, 
Mon  sein  est  inquiet;  la  volupte  Voppresse, 
Et  les  vents  alteres  m'ont  mis  la  levre  en  feu. 

Which  I  may  paraphrase: 

Poet,  seize  thy  lute — to-night  the  holy  wine 

Of  youth  ferments  in  the  veins  of  God: 
My  breast  is  ill  at  ease.,  desire  a  burden  grows, 
And  the,  parching  winds  heat  me  as  a  sod. 

Or  this  verse  which  Hugo  flings  to  you  with  the 
grand  gesture  whose  secret  he  possessed:— 
[210] 


THE  "  FREE  "  POETS 

Quel  dieu,  quel  moissonneur  de  I'cternel  ete 

Avail,  en  sen  allanl,  negligement  jete 

Cette  faucille  d'or  dans  le  champ  des  etoiles. 

What  god,  what  harvester  of  the  eternal  year 
Departing,  left  his  golden  sickle  here, 
Flung  careless  in  the  wide  and  starry  field. 

Truly  I  suspect  the  old  recipe  is  still  the  best- 
just  to  be  young,  and  to  love,  and  to  make  poetry 
that  is  music.     The  "  free  "  poets  are,  of  course, 
free  to  do  otherwise,  and  good  luck  to  them!— 
but  who  would  not  rather  take  a  chance  in  the 
fellowship  of  Horace,  Catullus  and  Musset? 

1LIKE  your  talent,  Ezra  Pound,*  but  I  should 
prefer  your  genius — if  you  would  give  me  of  it. 
This  clever  letter  to  me,  these  sparkling  critiques, 
those  delightful  tilts  with  London's  stodgy  literati, 
I  relish  them  all  to  admiration;  but  you  that  are 
young  and  a  poet  should  be  at  other  work.  What 
prose  will  hold  the  years  at  bay  like  "  Adonais  " 
or  the  "Lamia"?  .  .  . 

I  say  as  much  to  you,  Richard  Aldington:  *  the 

*  The  most  talented  and  productive,  and  not  the  least  militant  of 
the  "free"  poets  or  imagistes.  Mr.  Pound  is  an  American  and 
not  especially  proud  of  the  fact;  he  lives  abroad  and  his  literary 
inspiration  is  wholly  exotic.  Mr.  Aldington  is  an  Englishman. 

[211] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

cleverer  your  critical  writing  tne  better  would  be 
your  poetry — if  you  would  only  write  it !  You  are 
paying  in  copper  whilst  the  Muses  offer  you  gold. 
Reserve  your  economy  for  the  autumn  years.  In 
other  words,  do  your  poetry  now  and  your  jour 
nalizing  later.  He  that  speaks  to  you  is  no  Osier, 
yet  indifferent  honest :  youth  and  poetry  are  plants 
on  a  single  stem! 

Does  anybody  care  a  straw  about  Shelley's 
opinions  on  poetry  or  poetics?  Could  any  man  of 
taste  endure  to  read  through  the  controversy  be 
tween  Byron  and  one  Bowles?  Go  to,  then! 
Furthermore,  your  war  upon  the  ruling  canon  and 
aesthetic  of  poetry  (though  I  like  well  enough  the 
bravery  of  it)  is  merely  a  futile  and  barren  thing. 
Here  is  a  plain  answer  to  all  your  malapert  mani 
festoes  : 

THE  WAY  TO  DISCOUNTENANCE  BAD  POETRY  IS 
TO  WRITE  GOOD  POETRY. 

Manibus  date  lilia  plenis!  .  .  .  Give  lilies  with 
full  hands. 

Have  you  done  this  or  are  you  doing  it,  oh, 
scornful  young  poets?  I  would  like  to  pay  you  the 
compliment,  but  really  I  have  not  seen  much  of 
[212] 


THE  "  FREE  "  POETS 

your  work,  and  of  this  scarcely  anything  which  I 
would  call  poetry.  Oh,  but  this  is  maddening! 
—can  we  call  a  man  a  poet  who  does  not  write 
poetry?  Yet  until  you  do  this  you  but  spit  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind.  .  .  . 

Again,  whilst  there  is  much  to  praise  in  your 
effort  to  free  English  verse  of  the  cliche  and  the 
conventional,  there  is  also  something  to  blame, 
since  you  go  too  far.  Stock  phrases,  expletives, 
silly  personifications,  shop-worn  tropes,  affecta 
tions  of  every  sort,  can  be  cleared  away  without 
injury  to  the  basic  form  and  principle  of  English 
poetry.  But  melody  and  metre  cannot  be  dis 
pensed  with,  for  they  are  of  the  very  soul  of 
poetry. 

A  prime  reason  for  loving  verse  is  that  it  is 
rememberdblej  and  it  could  not  be  so  without 
metre  or  measure.  But  I  agree  that  prosody 
should  be  a  help,  not  a  hindrance:  I  would  give 
the  Muses  wings,  not  shackles. 

The  thing  that  we  recognize  as  beautiful  and 
that  we  can  put  away  in  our  memory  as  an  endur 
ing  possession,  that  is  the  special,  transcendent  gift 
of  poetry.  The  poet  who  cannot  give  us  this 
...  .  .  well,  there  are  the  quarries! 

[213] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

I  have  read  many  alleged  poems  by  the  new 
school  of  "free  poets"  (as  they  are  self -called), 
but  only  a  few  that  were  tolerable,  and  hardly  a 
single  one  that  I  could  have  stored  in  my  memory 
as  an  enduring  possession. 

There  is  always  something  suspicious  when  peo 
ple  want  to  play  without  observing  the  rules  of 
the  game. 

In  this  case  the  something  wrong  seems  to  be 
a  lack  of  positive  talent  or,  I  would  even  say, 
vocation.  The  "  free  "  poets,  so  far  as  I  know 
them,  want  to  be  free  to  write  poetry  without 
proving  either  their  right  or  their  ability  to  do  so. 
(Exceptions  made  in  favour  of  Messrs.  Pound, 
Aldington  and  one  or  two  others.) 

I  have  examined  hundreds  of  their  little  silhou 
ettes  or  word  patterns,  and  my  conclusion  is  that 
the  best  of  these  seem  child's  play  compared  to  the 
work  of  filling  a  Spenserian  stanza  with  the  true 
content  of  poetry.  Such  a  stanza  as  this,  for 
example : 

The  sky  is  changed! — and  such  a  change!  O  night, 
And  storm,   and   darkness,  ye   are   wondrous 

strong, 
[214] 


THE  "  FREE  "  POETS 

Yet  lovely  in  your  strength  as  in  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman.    Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!     Not  from  one  lone 
cloud, 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue: 
And  Jura  answers  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

Now  I  remember  hundreds  of  such  verses  with 
perfect  ease  and  surety  (taken  on  in  youth,  I 
may  confess),  while  I  cannot  re-word  a  single 
one  of  the  silhouettes  put  forth  as  "  poems  "  by 
the  Down-with- Shakespeare  School.  In  fact,  I 
could  as  easily  memorize  the  stipple  of  a 
stenographic  report. 

The  success  of  one  extraordinary  rebel  and 
poacher  is  responsible  for  this  revolt  of  the  "  free  " 
poets.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  poetry  that  the 
peculiar  vogue  of  Walt  Whitman  should  have  in 
spired  so  many  untalented  persons  to  go  and  do 
likewise.  He  had,  I  freely  grant,  compensating 
merits  which  none  of  his  imitators  may  claim, 
though  some  of  them  more  than  equal  him  in  point 
of  productiveness.  It  is  true  that  old  Walt 
jumped  the  fence  and  raided  the  preserve  of  poesy 

[215] 


PORTRAITS  AND  PREFERENCES 

by  unlawful  methods.  But  what  was  mere  poach 
ing  in  his  case,  justified  to  some  extent  by  an 
uncommon  talent,  is  rank  vandalism  on  the  part 
of  the  many  graceless,  ignorant  and  faking  pre 
tenders  who  take  his  name  in  vain. 

Note,  however,  that  the  vogue  of  Whitman  is 
mainly  with  professed  literary  experts  or  the  sex 
ually  emancipated — it  has  never  reached  the  mass 
of  the  people.  And  it  never  will,  because  of  its 
almost  complete  lack  of  what  goes  as  melody  and 
metre.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  ever  heard  an 
ordinary  person  quote  a  line  of  Whitman's,  though 
— and  here's  a  paradox  for  you — I  have  known 
not  a  few  persons  of  quite  ordinary  talent  try  to 
write  like  him! 

One  of  the  oldest  superstitions  of  the  race — old 
even  before  Literature  was  so  much  as  thought 
of — was  that  the  poet  should  sing.  Will  the  free 
poets  remember  this?  They  will  find  it  an  inval 
uable,  nay,  unerring  test  of  vocation.  And  if  they 
will  accept  it,  ah  me!  how  much  trouble  and 
vexation  of  spirit  will  it  save  them. 


[216] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 
ONE 

BERMUDA 

ONCERNING  THE  winter  climate  of  Ber- 
muda,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  get  exact  data 
—in  this  respect  Bermuda  is  like  a  lady  whose  age 
cannot  be  questioned.  The  tourist  books  "  leave 
much  to  be  desired  "  in  the  way  of  precise  infor 
mation,  yet  it  is  difficult  to  accuse  them  of  perjury 
or  prevarication.  The  hotel  people,  Cook's  agents, 
shopkeepers  and  natives  generally  are  entered  into 
a  cast-iron  conspiracy  on  this  point.  The  same  is 
carried  to  a  sacrificial  extreme.  While  I  shivered 
in  my  overcoat,  with  the  mercury  at  49°  or  50° 
(it  was  in  mid- January),  and  ruefully  watched  a 
cold  rain  falling,  Mine  Host  Paschal  of  the  Amer 
ican  House  paraded  before  me  in  a  thin  sack  coat, 
somewhat  ostentatiously  enjoying  himself.  Mr. 
Paschal  was  a  diver  in  his  earlier  career  and  is  a 
man  of  very  rugged  constitution.  .  .  . 

[219] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

No  doubt  one  feels  the  cold  more  in  Bermuda 
from  not  expecting  it,  and  also  because  the  hotels 
generally  are  built  of  a  porous  kind  of  stone,  which 
is  bound  to  convey  discomfort.  The  coral  insect 
who  made  this  stone,  and  who  was  indeed  the  orig 
inal  colonist  of  Bermuda,  took  no  thought  for  cer 
tain  climatic  contingencies.  Certainly  there  were 
a  few  days  when  I  was  glad  to  go  to  bed  in  the 
afternoon  just  to  keep  warm.  Explanation  was 
made  that  we  were  having  phenomenal  weather, 
and  I  freely  admit  that  it  was  paradisial  compared 
to  conditions  then  existing  at  New  York,  to  say 
nothing  of  Montreal,  Duluth,  or  Calgary.  Never 
theless,  I  could  not  warm  myself  with  a  litho 
graphed  copy  of  "Beautiful  Bermuda,"  and  I 
should  have  preferred  a  little  more  of  the  "  semi- 
tropical  climate  "  so  lovingly  dwelt  upon  in  that 
admirable  work. 

Let  me  add  that  during  my  sojourn  of  a  fort 
night  there  were  some  days  when  Bermuda  ac 
tually  lived  up  to  her  literary  reputation  and  came 
tardy  off  in  no  single  respect.  Ah!  then  she  was 
indeed  lovely,  this  daughter  of  the  sun,  and  her 
strange  fascination  invaded  my  every  sense,  so  that 
I  dreamed  passively  of  remaining  ever  captive  to 
[220] 


BERMUDA 

her   strong  toil  of  grace.     Pas   vrai,   Bermuda? 
Well,  then;  I  kiss  your  hands  and  say  au  revoir! 
—remembering  only  your  smiles  and  forgetting 
your  frowns  and  tears.   .    .    . 

THE  BEAUTY  of  the  sea  colouring  in  and 
about  Bermuda  is  hardly  to  be  exaggerated. 
It  would  seem  as  if  that  great  artist  the  Sun  had 
proposed  to  himself  certain  experiments  in  this 
tiny  paradise  before  trying  them  in  the  world  at 
large.  I  shall  never  forget  my  first  view  of  the 
harbour  of  Bermuda,  at  early  morning,  under  a 
light  warm  shower,  with  a  miraculous  rainbow 
trembling  overhead  almost  within  reach.  Nor  my 
first  glimpse  of  Harrington  Sound,  that  wondrous 
jewel  of  sea-water  enclosed  within  the  island's 
green  embrace: — it  called  to  mind,  in  its  image 
of  plenary  and  satisfying  beauty,  Shakespeare's 
figure  of  "  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite." 
Certainly  here  is  loveliness  that  "  the  sense  aches 
at,"  of  which  the  heart  cannot  have  too  much,  and 
whereof  the  eyes  weary  not  by  seeing.  I  returned 
time  and  again,  but  the  beauty  was  ever  the  same, 
or  rather  infinitely  varied. 

At  my  time  of  life,  having  discounted  some  few 

[221] 


0 

t 

REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

illusions,  I  feel  that  I  could  content  myself  in  a 
white  stone  villa  on  Harrington  Sound,  with  a 
sea  of  lapislazuli  spread  out  at  my  feet.  Espe 
cially  in  my  present  mood,  as  I  am  writing  in  face 
of  a  grim  snow-drifted  Connecticut  landscape  that 
quite  corrects  my  notion  of  Bermudian  inclemency. 
Property  in  Bermuda  is  quite  reasonable  yet,  I 
am  informed  by  a  friend,  who  built  himself  just 
such  a  place  in  that  very  spot  a  few  years  ago. 
Now  is  the  time  to  act  before  the  American  inva 
sion  fully  sets  in  and  a  boom  is  developed.  This 
calamity  is  imminent,  but  the  Bermudians  aver 
with  true  British  pluck,  that  they  will  sell  out  only 
at  the  highest  price.  I  think  they  dislike  us,  but 
our  money  is  not  strictly  objectionable.  Really, 
I  am  strongly  tempted — after  all,  it  is  only  forty- 
eight  hours  from  Broadway.  Ariel  is  there — and 
Richard  Butler  Glaenzer.  By  George — St. 
George,  of  course — I'll  do  it!  Pending  the 
necessary  arrangements  I  cry  with  old  Horace — 

Hie  terrarum  mihi  praeter  omnes 
Angulus  ridet! 

I  had  been  strolling  about  the  Public  Garden 
at  St.  George,  which  is  the  oldest  settlement  in 
[222] 


BERMUDA 

Bermuda  (1609).  The  Garden  is  overgrown 
with  weird  tropical  trees  and  plants,  some  of  which 
to  a  Northern  eye,  seem  endued  with  a  furtive, 
conscious,  malignant  life  (there  was  especially  a 
cactus,  armed  with  razor-like  leaves  which  I  am 
sure  nobody  could  get  past  at  night  without  leav 
ing  behind  a  few  sections  of  his  person) .  In  this 
garden  there  is  also  a  huge  monument  to  Sir 
George  Somers,  Knight,  who  has  been  dead  a  long 
time,  his  heart  being  here  buried.  Sir  George  was, 
in  effect,  the  original  discoverer  of  Bermuda. 

Leaving  the  garden,  at  length,  where  green  and 
variously  armed  and  tentacled  monstrosities  seemed 
plotting  to  detain  me  by  force,  I  stepped  into  a 
quaint,  narrow  old  street;  still  musing  over  Sir 
George  Somers,  Knight,  and  his  buried  heart. 
Suddenly  I  was  arrested  by  a  chirping  sound, 
familiar  enough  to  folk  who  dwell  in  great  cities, 
especially  in  those  quarters  where  pleasure  of  a 
certain  sort  is  more  or  less  frankly  pursued.  Look 
ing  about,  I  saw  a  shapely  "  yellow  gal "  go  traips 
ing  across  and  down  the  lane  with  two  redcoats 
piping  her  off.  The  look  on  that  girl's  face,  part 
fear  and  shame,  part  coquetry  and  anger,  was  not 
one  to  be  lightly  forgotten.  It  rises  before  me 

[223] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

as  a  silent  reminder  that  I  have  something  to  say 
about  Mr.  Tommy  Atkins. 


"XTATURALLY!"  you  interject,  since  the 
-^  red-coat  gives  a  touch  of  colour  to  the 
island,  while  the  drills,  parades,  regimental  band 
concerts,  etc.,  furnish  diversion  to  the  tourists. 
Don't  we  know  that  the  American  lady  visitors 
most  unpatriotically  dote  on  Tommy  plain  or  in 
epaulets?  Are  not  romances  so  furnished  from 
time  to  time,  some  of  them  involving  no  end  of 
money?  How  many  Tommys  do  you  suppose  have 
been  bought  out  of  the  service  by  American  women 
during  the  past  ten  years?  Enough  to  make  you 
stare.  American  women  are  all  snobs  (the  Ber- 
mudians  will  tell  you),  have  a  perfect  passion  for 
marrying  foreigners,  since  that  gets  them  notoriety 
in  the  papers;  and  some  of  them  are  not  hard  to 
suit  —  in  their  view,  a  soldier  is  the  next  good  thing 
to  a  title.  The  uniform  shows  off  a  good  figure, 
and  when,  pray,  has  the  heart  of  woman  proved 
obdurate  to  martial  airs  and  graces?  Also  it  must 
be  allowed  that  there  are  American  ladies  to  whose 
delicate  ears  the  cockney  burr  seems  the  native 
accent  of  aristocracy.  Oh,  not  really  of  the  Four 
[224] 


BERMUDA 

Hundred,  of  course;  just  comfortable  middle-class 
persons  from  Brooklyn,  or  Boston,  or  Philadel 
phia.  The  expectation  of  such  is  the  fond  hope 
of  Mr.  Atkins,  though  it  is  at  best  only  a  lottery 
chance.  .  .  . 

But  I  am  thinking  rather  of  those  weak  ones  of 
an  inferior,  childlike  race  who  have  had  to  bear  the 
burden  of  Tommy  in  divers  shameful  ways  during 
his  age-long  tenancy  of  these  islands.  The  copious 
tourist  literature  offers  nothing  under  this  head. 
You  may  ask  the  omniscient  Mr.  Bell,  who  will 
look  you  in  the  eye  and  talk  about  the  weather. 
The  young  woman  at  the  Public  Library  is  equally 
non-committal.  The  American  ladies  who  cry  out 
ecstatically  that  Tommy  Atkins  looks  too  dear 
in  his  scarlet  dress  uniform,  evince  no  curiosity  on 
the  point,  and  would  indeed  consider  the  topic  an 
improper  one.  But  you  can  piece  out  the  story 
for  yourself  by  observing  many  faces  among  the 
coloured  natives  of  Bermuda.  Very  good-looking 
they  are  as  a  rule  and  often  with  features  of  a  dis 
tinctively  English  cast.  Manners,  too,  decidedly 
better  than  those  of  our  own  emancipated  coloured 
brethren.  .  .  .  Then,  when  you  go  to  the 
Church  of  England  service  at  the  Cathedral  on 

[225] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

0 

Sunday,  where  the  pomp  of  bedizened  officers  and 
red-coated  soldiery,  helmeted  and  superb,  enforces 
the  grandeur  of  the  ritual — you  may  reflect,  if 
you  please,  upon  this  item  of  the  cost  of  British 
"  civilization."  .  .  . 

WE  WERE  walking  along  one  of  those  won 
derful  roads,  clean  and  smooth  and  ac 
tually  sawn  out  of  the  living  rock — roads  whose 
material  was  mainly  supplied  by  the  coral  insect 
and  the  labour  of  making  them  by  the  blacks  dur 
ing  more  than  two  hundred  years  of  slavery  (freed 
in  1834,  they  have  had  the  care  and  labour  of  the 
roads  until  this  day) .  These  roads  rank  high 
among  the  attractions  of  the  island;  they  collect 
no  mud,  being  of  porous  coral  limestone,  which 
quickly  absorbs  the  rain,  and  they  require  little 
cleaning  for  the  same  reason.  Nature  in  Bermuda 
is  a  great  labour-saver.  ( The  authorities  aver  that 
no  snow  ever  falls  on  the  island,  but  I  have  seen 
a  very  passable  imitation  of  hail.) 

It  was  an  almost  perfect  day,  such  as  comes  not 
infrequently  in  the  winter  season  to  restore  hope 
to  the  shivering  citizen  of  Duluth  or  Calgary,  and 
to  save  many  Bermudians  from  the  fate  of  Ana- 
[226] 


BERMUDA 

nias.  We  were  ascending  a  low  hill  on  our  way 
to  the  sea  caves,  which  are  about  two  and  one-half 
miles  from  Hamilton.  A  young  woman  of  our 
party  stopped  to  admire  some  bougainvilleas  in 
a  wayside  garden.  Nothing  lovelier  than  the  pur 
ple  flowers  of  this  tropical  plant  could  be  imag 
ined — it  makes  you  realize  why  this  colour  was 
chosen  by  the  Romans  as  a  symbol  of  power  and 
aristocracy.  We  were  sharing  the  young  woman's 
raptures  when  an  old  gentleman  accosted  us  from 
the  roadside  and  offered  to  show  us  some  finer 
specimens  of  the  flower. 

He  was  over  eighty,  tall,  with  an  eagle  beak  and 
an  eye  still  keen;  but  his  head  and  hand  shook 
a  little  from  palsy.  He  led  us  up  the  road  a  piece 
and  into  his  own  garden  on  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
It  was  carefully  kept,  but  seemed  old  like  himself: 
the  white  house,  too,  had  an  aged  appearance; 
though  it  was  very  clean  and  in  excellent  repair. 
There  was  an  air  of  secular  quiet  about  the  place, 
and  the  great  palms  themselves  seemed  to  show 
the  slow  effects  of  time.  Presently  we  were  admir 
ing  the  old  man's  bougainvilleas,  which  fully  justi 
fied  his  pride,  and  he  was  telling  us  that  he  had 
lived  here  sixty  years. 

[227] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  replying  to  a  surprised 
exclamation;  "and  my  wife  with  me — she  died 
only  three  months  ago." 

As  he  said  these  words,  the  old  man's  voice 
broke  a  little,  and  we  murmured  our  sympathy, 
while  striving  to  picture  to  ourselves  this  incredible 
idyl.  Sixty  years  of  constant  love  and  compan 
ionship  had  been  his  and  hers,  the  old  man  told  us, 
under  this  mild  sky  where  the  rigours  of  the  North 
are  unknown,  in  this  quaint  tropical  garden  whose 
brooding  trees  seemed  to  guard  the  secret  of  long 
life.  Long  before  any  of  our  party  were  born  he 
had  brought  his  young  bride  here,  and  for  the 
space  of  two  lives  they  had  lived  here  together. 
Happily,  no  doubt,  as  human  nature  will  permit, 
and  sometimes  learning  that  deeper  love  which 
comes  only  by  sorrow  and  bitterness.  We  thought 
of  the  sadness  of  that  separation,  when  this  old 
Adam  lost  his  immemorial  Eve ;  of  what  must  have 
been  his  terrible  loneliness  and  longing — and  then 
a  pretty  little  girl  holding  a  doll  tightly  hugged 
under  one  arm,  ran  up  to  us  and  took  her  grand 
father's  hand.  He  stooped  to  caress  her,  and  as 
he  did  so,  we  were  conscious  of  the  Spirit  of  Youth 
like  a  living  presence  in  that  ancient  garden.  It 
[228] 


BERMUDA 

was  a  relief  to  us  all;  and  there  were  tears  in  the 
young  woman's  eyes  when  at  parting  he  pressed 
upon  her  a  splendid  cluster  of  bougainvilleas. 

SMALL  AS  Bermuda  is,  one  sees  exemplified 
there  to  advantage  the  British  system  of  com 
bining  extreme  liberty  with  adequate  suppression 
of  crime  and  disorder.  Everybody  seems  to  drink, 
especially  the  native  Bermudian,  white  or  black, 
who  absorbs  like  the  coral  rock,  though  not  pref 
erably  at  his  own  expense.  Even  the  police  are 
not  chary  about  drinking  at  the  public  bars,  if 
invited,  and  they  are  a  distinct  source  of  legitimate 
entertainment  to  the  free-spending  tourists.  But 
all  this  marches  with  a  better  all-round  observance 
and  enforcement  of  law  than  we  have  in  New 
York,  where  a  policeman  would  be  "  broken  "  for 
drinking  at  a  public  bar.  I  will  not  deny  that  in 
this  respect,  at  least,  the  English  seem  to  me  the 
better  administrators  of  liberty. 

It  need  hardly  be  added  that  the  presence  of  the 
soldiers — usually  a  regiment  of  one  thousand  men, 
besides   a  war-ship   with   its  quota   of  marines- 
furnishes   a   strong   deterrent   to   crime.     Nor    is 
Tommy  Atkins  shy  at  wetting  his  whistle,  and  in 

[229] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

this  regard,  his  superiors  nobly  uphold  the  honour 
of  England.  But  this  liberality  is  apparently  con 
sistent  with  perfect  discipline  and  good  order.  At 
the  time  of  my  visit  (1914)  the  record  showed 
but  one  homicide  in  forty  years,  and  this  among 
the  blacks. 


[230] 


TWO 

BERMUDA  II 

BERMUDA  IS  worthy  to  be  celebrated  by 
poets,  but  her  honours  in  this  respect  are  not 
oppressive.  Larry  Chittenden,  the  cowboy  singer, 
has  cast  his  poetic  lariat  there  to  some  graceful 
effect,  and  my  gifted  friend  Richard  Butler 
Glaenzer  pauses  occasionally  in  his  pursuit  of 
the  Great  American  Novel  to  throw  off  a  sonnet. 
Also  Mrs.  Burnett  has  a  fine  villa,  one  of  the 
island  show-places,  which  persuasively  recalls  her 
agreeable  inventions.  However,  Tom  Moore,  the 
Irish  poet,  who  visited  Bermuda  over  a  hundred 
years  ago,  still  remains  her  chief  boast  in  the  way 
of  literary  association.  As  Moore  is  a  favourite 
of  my  own,  I  permit  myself  a  few  remarks  in  this 
connection. 

Moore  was  a  young  man,  in  his  early  twenties, 
when,  in  1803,  he  saw  Bermuda  for  the  first  time 
— a  little  later  he  visited  the  island  to  qualify  for 
a  sinecure  office  connected  with  the  Admiralty, 

[231] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

and  sojourned  there  a  few  months.  Moore  got 
this  job  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Moira  (the 
revolutionary  Lord  Rawdon) .  What  with  his  ex 
quisite  singing  voice  and  social  talents,  he  had  al 
ready  made  himself  a  favourite  in  English  aristo 
cratic  circles — a  position  he  was  never  to  lose  but 
rather  to  deepen  and  extend  with  his  increasing 
fame.  Pictures  of  the  poet  taken  at  this  time 
show  an  unmistakably  Irish  face,  brilliant  eyes 
(suggesting  a  certain  likeness  to  Brinsley  Sheri 
dan)  and  a  fine  head  of  curling  hair,  which  later 
earned  for  him  the  sobriquet  of  "  Bacchus." 

Moore's  Bermudian  poems  are  therefore  juve 
nilia,  not  to  be  classed  with  his  maturer  work  like 
the  "  Irish  Melodies,"  still  unrivalled  in  their  blend 
ing  of  poetry  and  music.  They  are  poetic  epistles, 
elegant,  elaborated  and  somewhat  too  cunning  in 
their  learned  notes  and  allusions,  which  "  Thomas 
Little "  addressed  to  his  titled  and  aristocratic 
friends,  no  doubt  with  a  view  to  helping  his  modest 
fortunes.  Nevertheless,  Moore's  "  Odes  to  Nea  " 
and  other  American  pieces  are  not  unworthy  of 
his  genius,  though  but  a  first  draught  of  the  vin 
tage  which  had  yet  to  win  its  full  charm  and  mel 
lowness  of  bouquet.  Their  passion  is  rather  liter- 
[232] 


BERMUDA  II 

ary  than  real  (Tommy  was  never  much  of  a 
Lothario,  his  "  amours "  being  mostly  imagined 
for  the  exercise  of  his  art).  Nea  stood  for  a 
creation  of  this  sort,  as  in  later  life  the  poet  hinted, 
rather  than  the  "  lady  of  the  isle  "  with  whom  the 
chronicles  seek  to  identify  her.  Once  indeed  the 
poet  confesses  that  wandering  together  on  the  wild 
and  lonely  shore,  he  and  his  Nea  very  nearly 
Tf  faute,"  as  the  French  put  it;  but  even  here  we 
are  not  seriously  alarmed  for  the  lady's  virtue. 
"  Nea's  House  "  is  shown,  by  the  way,  and  with 
very  questionable  taste,  her  descendants  are  traced 
down  to  the  present,  none  of  them  exhibiting  any 
marked  resemblance  to  Moore.  So  legend  arises 
at  the  popular  demand. 

Moore's  century-old  descriptions  of  Bermuda, 
whether  in  prose  or  verse,  are  singularly  fresh  and 
true,  reflecting  the  reality  like  a  mirror.  Nothing 
finer  can  be  imagined,  it  seems  to  me,  than  the 
following  which  faithfully  describes  my  own  im 
pressions  on  entering  the  harbour  of  Bermuda: — 

Bright  rose  the  morning,  every  wave  was  still, 
When  the  first  perfume  of  a  cedar  hill 
Sweetly  awaked  us,  and  with  smiling  charms, 
The  fairy  harbour  woo'd  us  to  its  arms. 

[233] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

Gently  we  stole  before  the  whispering  wind 
Through  plantain  shades  that  round  like  awnings 

twined 

And  kissed  on  either  side  the  wanton  sails, 
Breathing  our  welcome  to  these  vernal  vales; 
While,  far  reflected  o'er  the  wave  serene. 
Each  wooded  island  shed  so  soft  a  green 
That  the  enamour'd  keel,  with  whispering  play, 
Through  liquid  herbage  seemed  to  steal  its  way. 
Never  did  weary  bark  more  gladly  glide, 
Or  rest  its  anchor  in  a  lovelier  tide. 
Along  the  margin,  many  a  shining  dome, 
White  as  the  palace  of  a  Lapland  gnome, 
Brightened  the  wave.; — in  every  myrtle  grove, 
Secluded,  bashful,  like  a  shrine  of  love, 
Some  elfin  mansion  sparkled  through  the  shade, 
Etc.,  etc. 

Such  lines  as  these  help  us  to  understand  why 
Bermuda  is  exceeding  proud  of  the  admiration  she 
inspired  in  the  little  dapper  gentleman  with  the 
musical  voice  and  the  tip-tilted  nose  who  paid  his 
respects  to  her  so  long  ago.  As  I  have  said, 
Tommy  had  not  reached  his  high  notes  at  the 
time ;  but  even  so,  you  will  not  hear  such  warblings 
among  our  pert  magazine  choir.  I  might  also  in 
stance  "  The  Snow  Spirit,"  which  is  indeed  the 
[234] 


BERMUDA  II 

loveliest  of  Moore's  poetical  tributes  to  Bermuda. 
Tom  Moore's  House  is  the  name  given  to  an 
old  mansion  or  villa  situated  on  one  of  the  love 
liest  points  of  Harrington  Sound,  and  the  tradition 
which  affirms  his  residence  there  as  a  guest  is 
fairly  authentic.  An  old  spinet  is  shown  which 
one  would  like  to  believe  he  played  on  (modestly 
ogling  the  ladies  therewhile)  ;  a  room  is  exhibited 
as  his,  and  near  by  the  house  there  stands  a  cala 
bash  tree  identified  as  the  calabash  referred  to  in 
one  of  his  poems  (to  guard  the  tourist  from  error, 
some  verses  are  thoughtfully  placarded  on  the 
tree) .  I  was  glad  to  accept  the  whole  legend  out 
of  love  for  the  poet  of  my  race  who  has  given  so 
much  pure  joy  to  the  world.  Sacred  indeed  are 
the  vestiges  of  genius!  I  felt  my  heart  uplifted, 
standing  as  I  was  amid  a  scene  which  could  have 
changed  but  little  since  he  lingered  there  and 
imparted  to  all  this  beauty  the  charm  of  undying 
song. 

BERMUDA  PRODUCES  nothing  that  at  all 
approaches  in  economic  value  the  opalescent 
colours    of    Harrington    Sound,    or    the    varied 
splendour  of  her  sunsets.     The  island  can  scarcely 

[235] 


9 

REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

feed  itself,  so  small  is  its  arable  'area,  and  therefore 
the  American  tourist,  while  offering  himself  a 
change  of  scene  in  going  to  Bermuda,  does  not 
make  a  revolutionary  change  of  diet.  How  the 
coral  insect  knew,  when  it  built  this  island  ages 
ago,  that  New  York  would  be  able  to  send  food 
there,  is  as  profound  a  mystery  as  may  be.  It  is 
true  there  is  the  Bermuda  onion,  an  important 
article  of  export — (not  so  important  as  formerly, 
however,  the  Texas  onion  now  making  great 
inroads  upon  the  market) .  By  the  way,  this  escu 
lent  seems  to  be  so  rare  in  Bermuda  that  at  my 
hotel  it  figured  among  the  desserts,  and  then  only 
on  grand  occasions. 

Farming  is  mostly  in  the  hands  of  the  Portu 
guese  who  have  supplanted  the  blacks  of  late 
years,  the  latter  here  as  everywhere  having  no 
taste  for  steady  hard  labour  and  preferring  the 
lighter  gregarious  employments  of  the  town.  The 
Portuguese  are  amazingly  industrious  and  saving. 

Tropical  fruits  such  as  bananas,  mangoes,  etc., 
are  grown  rather  for  show  than  use,  it  would  seem, 
the  climate  not  being  hot  enough  to  give  them  their 
full  maturity ;  I  fancy  the  same  is  true  of  oranges 
and  lemons.  So  there  are  a  few  drawbacks  to  a 
[236] 


BERMUDA  II 

"  semi-tropical "  climate,  though  the  same  are  not 
set  down  in  the  tourists'  ritual. 

But  indeed,  Bermuda  is  not  to  be  eaten — she  is 
to  be  just  tasted,  kissed  if  you  will,  looked  at  a 
very  great  deal,  and  temperately  enjoyed.  This 
sounds  a  bit  figurative,  but  I  have  no  better  coun 
sel  for  the  tourist.  .  .  . 

Another  thing  the  coral  founder  could  hardly 
have  anticipated  a  million  years  ago:  New  York 
sends  money  to  Bermuda  as  well  as  food,  gobs  of 
it,  by  the  tourists  who  pour  in  from  December  to 
May.  (There  is  very  little  tourist  business  in 
Summer,  though  Bermudians  vouch  for  a  climate 
that  should  make  Paradise  envious.)  Of  course, 
New  Yorkers  are  welcome  for  their  money — Ber- 
muda  has  the  peculiar  hard  British  reverence  for 
lucre — but  they  are  likewise  a  little  feared.  This 
applies  especially  to  Americans  who  have  acquired 
estates  and  winter  residences  there — no  large  num 
ber.  They  are  blamed  for  demoralizing  the  labour 
market  by  paying  fancy  wages  to  their  servants. 
English  colonists  of  caste  resent  this,  and  in  con 
sequence  thereof,  are  planning  to  make  acquisition 
harder  for  the  too-free  American  spender.  His 
lavishness  in  the  matter  of  tips  alone  has  scattered 

[237] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

seeds  of  discontent  among  the  Coloured  folk,  who 
now  think  and  talk  about  money  ( I  have  it  on  the 
best  Bermudian  avouchment)  as  never  before  in 
the  annals  of  the  island.  This  is  embarrassing  to 
the  person  of  ordinary  means,  for  every  New 
Yorker  is  at  first  sight  taken  for  a  millionaire,  and 
the  truth  being  presently  discovered,  he  is  made 
to  feel  the  tacit  but  eloquent  depreciation  of  the 
Jungle  (coloured  hotel  people,  etc.).  Positive  in 
conveniences  also  arise  from  the  same  cause.  It 
must  be  said  in  all  candour  that  after  a  short  so 
journ,  the  parasitic  atmosphere  of  Bermuda  be 
comes  oppressive.  Spenders  of  the  exaggerated 
Broadway  type  are  not  improving  the  native  mor 
als  and  manners  of  the  island.  I  was  told  that 
a  cub  of  a  rich  and  famous  New  York  family  vis 
iting  there  last  season,  amused  himself  by  giving 
five-dollar  tips  for  the  most  trivial  services.  This  is 
the  most  hateful  vice  of  the  American  "  bounder," 
and  next  to  this  the  depreciatory  attitude  which 
he  adopts  toward  his  own  country  with  the  first 
British  Bermudian  who  sits  down  with  him  to 
whisky-and-soda.  It  is  really  curious  how 
quickly  our  "  bounder  "  takes  the  British  atmos 
phere  of  the  island.  In  this  he  is  warmly  emulated 
[238] 


BERMUDA  II 

by  his  women  folks.  Listening  to  them  (which 
you  cannot  easily  help  doing)  you  would  marvel 
how  the  American  Constitution  lasts  overnight! 

AUTOMOBILES  ARE  neither  used  nor 
permitted  to  be  used  in  Bermuda.  Many 
wealthy  Americans  have  sought  to  override  this 
veto,  only  to  find  themselves  up  against  a  stone 
wall.  Common  sense  approves  of  this  ordinance. 
The  islands  are  smaller  in  area  than  we  are  apt 
to  think,  about  twenty-five  square  miles ;  the  roads 
are  rather  narrow,  as  a  rule,  with  many  sharp 
curves  and  turns,  so  that  careful  driving  is  at  all 
times  necessary.  Then — and  this  is  perhaps  the 
strongest  argument  against  the  auto — the  hotels 
make  a  feature  of  carriage  drives  to  the  various 
sights  of  the  place,  and  thereby  many  of  the  col 
oured  people  get  their  livelihood. 

These  black  drivers  are  generally  polite  and 
good-natured.  George,  a  favourite  of  mine,  had 
markedly  English  features  and  possessed  a  fund 
of  information,  always  ready  if  not  invariably  ac 
curate,  as  to  all  things  Bermudian.  His  fluent 
speech,  eliding  consonants  wherever  possible,  was 
a  delight  to  the  ear.  In  his  accent  there  was  a 

[239] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

trace  of  cockneyism,  and  very  curiously,  he  sounded 
his  "v's"  like  Sam  Weller;  thus,  "  werry  "  for 
very,  "  wallable  "  for  valuable,  etc.  It  is  many 
years,  I  understand,  since  this  peculiarity  dropped 
out  of  the  speech  of  Londoners.  A  significant 
reminder  of  the  long  occupation  of  Tommy 
Atkins.  .  .  . 

George's  simplicity  was  charming :  he  had  never 
been  off  the  island  and  he  was  proud  of  the  fact. 
Had  he  had  any  chances  to  go  to  New  York? 
Oh  yes-sa,  'deed  yes,  plenty  times,  but  Bermuda 
allus  seemed  good  enough  for  him.  He  noticed 
that  some  of  those  coloured  boys  that  went  to  New 
Yohk  (George  was  about  forty)  came  back  afteh 
a  yeah  or  so  and  nevah  'peared  the  same-like. 
They  spent  their  money  for  cough  medicine  en' 
seemed  to  drap  away-like,  en'  then  one  day  you 
heahd  of  a  fuhnal.  No — sa,  I  ha-nt  any  fault  to 
find  with  Behmuda.  In  cou'se  the  wages  are  wery 
small,  oh,  yes — sa,  wery  small,  en'  if  it  wa'n't  foh 
the  kindness  of  the  tourists  "  —Here  George  deli 
cately  flicked  the  off  horse's  ear  and  permitted  me 
to  reflect  that  his  simplicity  was  not  wholly  free 
from  art. 

But  simple  these  Bermuda  blacks  are,  as  one 
[240] 


BERMUDA  II 

does  not  find  them  in  the  States.  Thus,  I  was 
talking  to  George  about  the  freedom  from  crime 
which  is  one  of  the  regulation  boasts  of  Bermuda, 
only  one  man,  and  he  a  black,  having  been  hanged 
there  in  forty  years  (this  was  quite  recently  and 
the  police  sergeant  who  arrested  him  is  regarded 
as  a  hero) .  "  Well,  no — sa,"  said  George,  "  it's 
true  they  ain't  much  bad  doin's  heah,  neither 
among  the  black  folk  nor  the  white  folk.  En'  it 
stands  to  reason  why  not — you  jest  can't  help 
yousself.  You'se  jest  got  to  behave,  for  how'se 
you  goin'  to  get  away?  S'pose  you  rob  somebody 
or  beat  some  one  up  right  here  in  Hamilton  and 
then  run  to  Paget,  or  Tucker's  Town,  or  St. 
George.  What  do  they  do?"  concluded  George, 
his  voice  rising  with  the  triumph  of  the  disclo 
sure, — "  why  they  jest  telephone  ovah  dere  en'  git 
you!" 

Nothing  more  naive  ever  came  out  of  the 
Jungle: — I  regret  that  my  imperfect  translitera 
tion  of  George's  dialect  fails  to  do  it  justice.  .  .  ., 


[241] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

• 

A  HALF-DOZEN  Boer  prisoners-of-war  still 
remain  in  Bermuda,  having  refused  to  take 
the  oath  of  allegiance  to  English  authority.  They 
have  been  on  the  island  twelve  years,  expiating 
their  stubborn  and  hopeless  fidelity  to  their  lost 
country,  and  they  are  the  objects  of  much  curi 
osity  to  visiting  tourists.  As  prisoners-of-war,  I 
daresay  the  government  supports  them,  or  at  least 
makes  them  some  provision;  but  they  seem  to  live 
by  their  trade  in  souvenirs,  cedar  canes  and  cas 
kets,  calabash  bowls,  etc.,  which  they  turn  out  with 
remarkable  skill. 

I  liked  to  talk  with  one  of  them  especially,  a 
short,  powerful  man  about  fifty,  said  to  have  been 
an  officer  under  Paul  Kruger's  government.  He 
had  the  grey  piercing  eye  of  the  marksman,  re 
minding  me  of  that  fatal  accuracy  of  aim  on  the 
part  of  those  war-like  farmers,  which  cost  the 
British  Empire  so  much  blood  and  treasure.  It 
flashed  suddenly  upon  me  one  day  when  I  had 
referred  to  his  "fellow-soldiers."  "Soldiers!" 
he  ejaculated,  pausing  over  his  lathe,  "we  were 
not  soldiers,  but  freemen.  Sixty  thousand  of  us, 
young  and  old — nothing  you  could  call  an  army." 
[242] 


BERMUDA  II 

A  patrol  of  redcoats  passed  the  open  door  of 
the  Boer's  little  workshop  as  he  spoke.  I  looked 
at  the  short,  grey-eyed  man  and  he  divined  my 
thought. 

"  But  we  were  a  match  for  over  two  hundred 
thousand  of  those  British,"  he  added,  as  if  he  had 
not  paused  in  his  speech. 

"And  listen!"  he  said,  coming  nearer  with 
uplifted  hand  and  burning  eyes;  "the  Bible 
it  says  there  will  be  a  war,  and  then  a  peace 
which  will  be  no  real  peace,  and  then  again  a 
war!  We  shall  be  twice  sixty  thousand  the  next 
time." 

My  heart  swelled  at  the  courage  of  this  uncon 
querable  rebel,  and  for  the  first  time  I  realized  how 
dear  liberty  must  be  to  men  of  his  simple,  primitive 
type,  austere  and  God-fearing.  He  had  served  in 
all  the  bloody  conflicts  of  the  Transvaal,  from  the 
Kaffir  War  to  Jameson's  Raid,  and  lastly  in  that 
great  struggle  which  had  almost  brought  the  giant 
power  of  England  to  its  knees.  Majuba — Mod- 
der  River — Spion  Kop — what  visions  rushed  upon 
me !  Looking  at  him,  this  plain  homely  hero,  my 
eyes  misted  and  he  seemed  to  grow  taller  before 
me,  while  his  face  assumed  an  air  of  grandeur 

[243] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

and  something  of  solemn  beauty.  "  It  is  the  Spirit 
of  Liberty  itself  honouring  this  soldier  of  a  lost 
cause,"  I  thought,  stricken  with  awe;  and  I  felt 
that  my  feet  pressed  holy  ground.  .  .  . 

"  I  prefer  a  lemon  stick,"  I  said  to  the  Boer,  as 
I  was  about  to  choose  a  souvenir;  "the  cedar  is 
too  brittle." 

"  Try  this  one,  then,  with  the  cedar  handle,"  he 
said,  offering  me  a  sturdy  cudgel  of  lemon  wood, 
the  tough  lemon  tree  of  Bermuda.  "  You  can 
strike  with  it." 

"  I  take  this  stick,"  I  said  meaningly  to  the 
Boer,  "  not  because  I  have  any  need  of  it — but 
because  you  struck! " 

"Would  God  that  I  might  strike  again!"  he 
replied,  grasping  my  hand  in  farewell. 

I  shall  never  see  him  again,  for  he  and  the  other 
recalcitrants  will  soon  be  sent  back  to  Africa.  Re 
calling  what  they  have  endured  for  their  stubborn 
fealty,  who  will  say  that  patriotism  is  not  still  the 
Greatest  Thing  in  the  world?  .  .  . 

There  is  an  alleged  remark  of  Mark  Twain's 
(surreptitiously  postcarded  without  Mr.  Bell's  ap 
proval)  that  the  trip  to  Bermuda  is  like  going 
[244  ] 


BERMUDA  II 

through  hell  to  get  to  Paradise.  My  own  expe 
rience  was  just  the  opposite — I  got  my  hell  re 
turning!  But  going  or  coming  you  are  bound  to 
get  yours — 'tis  a  toll  due  to  Father  Neptune  from 
which  only  hardened  sea-dogs  are  exempt.  How 
a  man  survives  such  a  cataclysmal  tearing  up  of 
his  "  inwards,"  and  surviving,  how  he  ever  comes 
to  forget  it  or  pass  an  hour  without  prayerfully 
remembering  it, — these  are  mysteries  beyond  the 
unaided  power  of  human  reason  to  solve.  Per 
haps  it  is  vanity  that  makes  us  wish  to  hide  even 
from  our  inmost  selves  the  picture  of  that  awful 
"  goneness  "  and  humiliation.  I  got  mine,  at  any 
rate,  and  I  fondly  believed  that  there  was  no  sec 
ond  to  it  on  the  ship.  But  a  large  man,  somewhat 
superfluously  repeating  my  sentiments  in  an  ad 
joining  stateroom,  completely  undeceived  me  on 
this  point.  Listening  to  him,  I  felt  quite  ashamed 
of  my  own  performance,  and  decided  that  I  was 
but  a  raw  amateur.  I  even  told  him  as  much,  but 
he  did  not  receive  my  observation  in  a  friendly 
spirit — that  is,  I  so  judged,  for  his  words  were  un 
intelligible.  Well,  well,  under  the  circumstances, 
a  little  petulance  seemed  excusable.  .  .  . 

Do  you  ask  me,  shall  I  ever  make  another  trip 

[245] 


0 

REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

to  Ariel's  enchanted  isle?  I  reply,  what  man 
worthy  of  the  name  would  be  content  with  one 
kiss  of  a  beautiful  woman?  .  .  .  Not  I,  of  a 
truth,  Bermuda! 


[246] 


THREE 

THE   CONQUEROR 

FROM  THE  very  outbreak  of  the  Great  War, 
beginning  with  the  hurricane  dash  of  the 
Germans  upon  Liege,  there  was  the  usual  public 
expectation  of  some  great  general  or  military  hero 
to  be  cast  up  by  the  tide  of  events  and  to  dominate 
the  situation. 

The  public  eternally  wants  a  hero  and  the  busi 
ness  of  war  is  to  furnish  him,  is  it  not?  Well, 
then:  the  public  will  not  be  satisfied  with  boards 
of  strategy,  army  councils,  or  even  kings  and 
emperors  in  the  background.  It  demands  HIM — 
LUI — in  a  word,  the  Man  on  Horseback! 

But  the  Great  War  proceeded,  battles  were  lost 
and  won,  cities  besieged  and  taken,  fortresses 
blown  up,  whole  regions  laid  desolate  and  un 
counted  thousands  of  men  slaughtered:  and  yet 
the  Hero,  the  Expected  One,  failed  to  appear. 
Through  the  smoke  of  battle,  through  the  bloody 

[247] 


t 

REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

mist  of  carnage,  from  lands  nfear-by  and  from 
remote  countries  all  eyes  watched  for  Him  in 
tently,  all  hearts  trembled  with  the  wish  to  hail 
and  salute  the  CONQUEROR! 

Still  he  came  not,  though  there  were  several  false 
alarms  which  exasperated  a  public  that  deemed 
itself  cheated  in  this  monstrous  war  without  a  hero. 
Generals,  generals,  generals — princes  and  high 
nesses  and  excellencies — a  world  on  horseback  but 
not  THE  MAN  :  what  sort  of  a  humbug  farce  of  war 
was  this  for  which  the  world  would  have  to  pay 
so  dear  a  price! 

Responding  to  the  popular  desire,  'the  news 
papers  sought  to  pick  out  and  distinguish  a  hero; 
for  it  was  to  their  profit  to  whip  up  the  interest 
of  the  public,  which  flagged  at  times  over  the  dull 
and  censored  chronicles  of  the  war.  For  there 
passed  many  days  without  a  battle  or  striking 
incident  of  any  sort,  and  even  the  invention  of 
journalists,  unhampered  by  knowledge  of  what 
was  actually  taking  place,  often  failed  of  its  pur 
pose.  Thus  for  a  moment  General  Joffre  shone  in 
the  journalistic  calcium;  then  the  spotlight  shifted 
in  turn  to  Von  Kluck,  Von  Hindenburg,  French, 
Pau,  and  others.  None  would  do  after  the  briefest 
[248] 


THE  CONQUEROR 

exposure,  and  then  the  bold  attempt  was  made  to 
play  up  the  Kaiser  as  THE  MAN.  But  his  imperial 
modesty  took  the  alarm  and  his  name  disappeared 
from  the  official  bulletins.  The  Crown  Prince 
was  tried  with  a  little  more  success;  however,  he 
gave  an  interview  and  talked  himself  out  of  the 
hero  class.  Then  the  newspapers  sought  to  lead 
out  a  statesman  who  would  answer  the  public 
desire,  failing  a  real  military  hero.  Churchill  was 
thrown  on  the  screen,  but  he  was  so  egregiously 
under  measure  that  this  attempt  may  be  said  to 
have  failed  even  more  decisively  than  the  previous 
efforts. 

The  public  fumed  with  exasperation  and  the 
newspapers  were  at  their  wits'  end :  they  had  tried 
their  whole  bag  of  tricks,  including  the  most  costly 
and  brilliant  American  fakes,  and  yet  here  was  the 
indisputable  fact :  the  public  was  being  flatly  bored 
with  the  Greatest  War  of  modern  times — a  war 
which,  practically  for  the  first  time,  had  furnished 
the  spectacle  of  men  fighting  in  the  air.  But  the 
public  grumbled  that  it  was  more  of  a  spectacle 
than  anything  else,  and  a  great  deal  of  vulgar  wit 
was  expended  on  the  "  Zeppelin  pleasure  tours." 
Clearly,  something  would  have  to  be  done,  and 

[249] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

quickly  too,  if  journalism  we're  to  maintain  its 
profits  and  its  prestige. 

Still  the  monotonous  campaign  went  on,  East 
and  West.  The  official  reports  of  the  several 
powers  engaged  took  on  a  deadly  sameness,  even 
to  contradicting  each  other's  claimed  victories. 
There  were  battles,  sieges,  marches,  counter 
marches,  assaults,  repulses  from  day  to  day.  The 
military  censors  were  learning  the  art  of  news 
paper  composition:  it  seemed  that  they  would 
develop  a  first-class  journalist  before  they  would 
turn  up  a  great  general.  But  meantime,  alas, 
the  public  was  being  bored  to  death.  And 
still  nobody  appeared  in  the  wrinkled  front  of  war 
to  give  even  a  momentary  thrill  of  THE  HERO — the 
Awaited  One.  Not  a  single  man  to  draw  upon 
himself  the  world's  long  pent  up  acclaim  as  the 
Napoleon — the  Ney — the  Murat — the  Suwarrow 
—the  Bliicher — even  the  Boulanger  of  the  hour! 

In  default  of  a  real  hero,  the  popular  mind 
sought  to  amuse  itself  and  at  the  same  time  give 
vent  to  its  ill  humour  by  playing  with  metaphor. 
Thus  it  said  when  the  winter  was  well  advanced: 
"  At  least  there  is  one  good  general  among  them 
now — Gen.  January!  He  will  bring  matters  to 
[250] 


THE  CONQUEROR 

a  head."  And  later  on:  "Gen.  January  wasn't 
quite  up  to  the  mark,  but  wait! — you'll  see  that 
Gen.  February  will  make  short  work  of  this  war." 
Well,  he  didn't,  and  the  real  hero  of  the  Great 
War  was  yet  to  appear  and  make  his  coup  de 
main:  which  I  am  now  about  to  relate  to  you. 

THE  WORST  of  the  winter  was  over.  Gen 
eral  February  had  retired,  having  done  his 
utmost  to  rout  the  two  great  armies  locked  in 
an  unyielding  embrace.  General  March  had  then 
come  on  with  more  than  his  usual  snowing  and 
blowing,  and  such  was  the  fury  of  his  assault  that 
for  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  break 
the  deadlock  and  whistle  the  combatants  away. 
But  he  too  failed,  and  recalling  all  his  windy 
heralds  and  trumpeters,  was  presently  forced  to 
retire  in  high  dudgeon. 

Now,  with  the  first  mildness  of  the  spring,  a 
change  began  to  make  itself  manifest  in  the  war. 
There  was  a  great  abatement  of  the  ferocity  which 
had  marked  its  earlier  stages.  Attacks  and  coun 
ter-attacks  were  still  frequent  along  the  extensive 
battle  line  separating  the  two  great  armies,  but 
the  tale  of  those  killed  in  such  encounters  dimin- 

[251] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

ished  daily — nay,  it  was  even  rumoured  that  the 
fighting  was  of  a  half-hearted  kind.  Also  it  began 
to  be  whispered  that  the  hostile  armies  had  neigh 
boured  each  other  so  long  in  all  the  cold  and  misery 
and  privation  of  the  trenches,  with  bleak  Nature 
as  their  common  enemy,  that  they  now  found  it 
impossible  to  attack  with  the  old  fury  and  hatred. 

But  it  turns  out  that  there  was  even  a  more 
potent  cause  at  work  than  the  amity  which  these 
racial  enemies  had  found  for  each  other  in  the  long 
winter  months  of  that  terrible  struggle.  The  real 
Hero  of  the  war — the  CONQUEROR  himself  was  on 
the  point  of  appearing! 

A  relaxation  of  discipline  became  the  general 
order — a  relaxation  marked  by  some  painful  yet 
ludicrous  incidents.  A  German  soldier  was  court- 
martialled  for  failing  to  salute  his  captain — than 
which,  as  is  well  known,  no  offence  could  be  more 
heinous  to  the  Teutonic  mind.  His  excuse  was 
that  he  had  started  to  do  so,  but  with  hand  half- 
uplifted  had  been  obliged  to  stop  and  scratch  him 
self  in  a  particularly  odious  manner.  He  threw 
himself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  court  and  implored 
his  captain  in  moving  tones  to  admit  that  he  him 
self  had  set  the  example.  At  this  the  members 
[252] 


THE  CONQUEROR 

of  that  stern  court  evinced  an  unheard-of  emotion, 
and,  as  by  a  common  impulse,  all  began  to  scratch 
themselves!  The  soldier  was  dismissed  with  a  light 
reprimand  and  withdrew,  scratching  himself  grate 
fully  to  the  last. 

An  attempt  was  then  made  to  adapt  the  require 
ments  of  the  manual  of  arms  to  this  odd  physical 
necessity,  but  it  was  only  partially  successful,  and 
a  perfect  fury  of  scratching  seized  upon  the  whole 
army.  This  hateful  exercise  was  practised  every 
where  and  in  the  highest  company.  It  was  even 
found  impossible  to  forbid  it  to  the  very  waiters 
and  other  menials  when  serving  princes  and  high 
nesses  and  excellencies.  Noblesse  oblige!  These 
exalted  personages  soon  adapted  themselves  to  the 
unpleasant  condition,  without  serious  loss  of  dig 
nity.  Indeed  it  was  soon  noticed,  as  a  vindication 
of  the  aristocratic  idea,  that  the  nobilities  scratched 
themselves  with  an  air  distinct  from  that  of  the 
common  soldiers;  but  it  must  be  added,  with  no 
less  heartiness. 

Similar  scenes,  with  a  like  accompanying  laxity, 
were  observed  in  the  French  and  English  camps. 
In  the  former,  the  humourous  imagination  of  the 
common  soldier  had  devised  a  complete  scratching 

[253] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

manual  or  tactic.  This  had  a  very  droll  effect 
when  performed  in  unison  by  a  whole  company, 
as  it  frequently  was ;  but  it  must  be  allowed  that 
the  fibre  of  discipline  was  much  weakened  by  these 
exhibitions. 

The  English  were  more  stolid  in  their  perform 
ances,  as  was  to  be  expected  from  the  national 
character,  but  they  too  scratched  with  great  vigour, 
and  as  if  such  occupation  were  dearer  to  them  than 
defeating  the  enemy.  The  amount  of  bad  lan 
guage  and  profane  blasphemy  thereby  released 
among  them  was  much  greater  than  in  the  other 
camps,  but  it  would  be  an  error  to  regard  this 
solely  as  an  indication  of  ill  temper,  such  freedom 
of  expression  being  a  favourite  relief  with  the  war 
like  English. 

SUCH  WAS  the  annoying  condition  among 
these  unfortunate  men-at-arms  when  one 
morning  in  early  April  the  Sun,  as  if  heartily 
entering  into  the  jest,  threw  an  unwonted  heat 
upon  them.  The  effect  was  truly  indescribable 
(this  is  one  of  the  seven  oldest  phrases  in  the 
world,  but  there  is  nothing  to  take  its  place) . 
Every  man  felt  as  if  he  was  being  eaten  alive, 
[254] 


THE  CONQUEROR 

and  the  futility  of  men  scratching  with  only 
ten  finger-nails  was  instantaneously  recognized 
throughout  those  mighty  hosts.  They  wavered 
still  a  moment,  and  then  as  another  searching  beam 
came  from  old  Sol,  they  broke  into  universal  flight, 
throwing  away  arms  and  clothes  as  they  ran — but 
always  scratching!  Camps  and  entrenchments 
were  abandoned  with  all  their  munitions,  booty,  etc. 
In  a  few  hours  that  immense  theatre  of  war  was 
completely  deserted  and  Silence  had  resumed  her 
dominion  over  the  scene  (this  phrase  is  also  very 
ancient  but  quite  indispensable  to  the  serious 
writer).  THE  HERO  had  come  at  last.  THE 
CONQUEROR  had  done  his  work.  The  Great  War 
was  over! 

RECENT  AS  was  this  surprising  event,  it 
seems  strange  that  there  should  be  any  ques 
tion  as  to  the  identity  of  the  real  HERO  who  brought 
it  to  pass.  But  already  it  is  clear  that,  perhaps 
from  motives  of  national  diffidence,  an  attempt 
is  being  made  to  rob  him  of  the  credit,  not  merely 
of  a  great  victory  but  of  the  far  greater  glory 
of  restoring  peace  to  a  world  and  ending  a  war 
which  had  threatened  to  engulf  civilization  itself. 

[255] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

Envy  quibbles  over  the  name  of  the  Illustrious 
Hero,  seeing  that  it  cannot  dispute  his  achieve 
ment.  Thus,  some  authorities  leaning  to  the 
German  side  call  him  GEN.  LAUS;  while  some 
favouring  the  French  name  him  GEN.  POU  (not  to 
be  confounded  with  Gen.  Pau) .  What  the  Eng 
lish  call  him  is  left  to  the  discreet  conjecture  of 
the  reader. 

Perhaps  I  may  add,  as  a  moral,  that  thus  it  will 
be  seen  the  public  is  never  really  disappointed  of 
its  hero  in  like  circumstances:  come  he  infallibly 
will,  though  to  be  sure,  not  always  in  the  form 
and  shape  demanded  by  the  popular  imagination. 


[256] 


FOUR 

TWO    PICTURES 

rriHERE  IS  a  famous  passage  in  Carlyle 
JL  which  describes  the  meeting  of  two  hostile 
armies  arrayed  for  mutual  slaughter  and  waiting 
only  the  word  of  their  commanders.  The  com 
mon  men  of  whom  these  armies  are  made  up  have 
not  the  slightest  grievance  on  the  one  side  or  the 
other,  nor  are  they  moved  by  the  least  animosity. 
No  supreme  cause  of  country  has  called  them  into 
the  field — they  are  there  simply  in  obedience  to 
the  summons  of  their  rulers,  for  reasons  which 
touch  them  not  at  all,  which  do  not  concern  their 
private  fortunes  or  interests,  and  which  they  are 
not  suffered  to  understand.  Yet  at  the  call  of 
authority  they  have  abandoned  their  wives  and 
children,  their  fathers  and  mothers,  their  sweet 
hearts  or  promised  brides, — yes,  all  that  attaches 
them  to  life,  in  order  to  shed  their  innocent  blood 
and  the  blood  of  others  innocent  as  themselves, 

[257] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

9 

merely  to  gratify  some  capricious  whim,  some 
guilty  or  vain  ambition  of  their  rulers. 

On  each  side  there  are  priests  actively  exhorting 
these  common  men  to  do  their  duty :  that  is,  to  shed 
their  common  blood  with  courage,  as  they  hope  for 
salvation  through  the  merciful  wounds  of  Christ. 
And  the  priests  are  very  careful  to  point  out  that 
in  so  doing  they  are  but  obeying  the  will  of  God, 
as  expressed  through  their  rulers,  His  chosen  rep 
resentatives.  Now  as  this  plea  is  put  forth  by 
the  priests  on  both  sides,  and  indeed  ever  has  been 
since  men  first  banded  to  slay  and  rob  their  kind, 
it  follows  that  the  horrible  blasphemy  is  achieved 
of  making  God  chiefly  responsible  for  the  crime 
of  war! 

Thus  braced  and  stimulated  by  the  blessing  of 
religion,  these  common  men  prepare  bravely  to 
slaughter  their  fellows  and  to  submit  to  be  slaugh 
tered  themselves;  telling  themselves  that  it  must 
be  the  right  thing  to  do,  since  their  rulers  desire 
it  and  the  priests  sanction  it.  Yet  they  go  to  the 
killing  with  reluctance  or  indifference,  at  first, 
until  very  soon,  with  the  blind  fury  and  savagery 
which  the  spirit  of  war  engenders,  they  are  changed 
in  despite  of  themselves.  From  harmless  common 
[258] 


TWO  PICTURES 

men,  thinking  only  with  regret  of  their  abandoned 
homes  and  dear  ones,  of  their  peaceful  occupations, 
the  idle  plough  and  loom  and  workshop, — they 
are  in  a  few  moments  turned  into  murderers, 
delighting  and  exulting  in  the  slaughter  of  their 
fellows,  maddened  by  the  sight  of  blood,  crazy  to 
kill — kill — kill! — and  lost  to  the  instincts  of 
humanity. 

Something  like  this  is  the  terrible  image  of  war 
called  up  by  Carlyle's  famous  description.  I  have 
here  employed  the  idea — not  the  words. 

There  is  another  picture  of  two  armies  drawn 
by  the  hand  of  Karl  Marx  the  Socialist,  which, 
though  not  now  so  famous  and  admired  as  that  of 
Carlyle,  will  in  time  to  come  be  far  more  cele 
brated,  invoking  greater  praise  and  blessing  upon 
the  name  of  its  author.  It  is  in  truth  less  a  picture 
than  a  prophecy  whose  fulfilment  no  remote  gen 
eration  is  surely  destined  to  see. 

Karl  Marx  describes  the  meeting  of  the  armies 
for  battle  in  much  the  same  manner  as  Carlyle. 
They  are  made  up  of  common  men — that  most 
abundant  food  for  cannon.  They  are  summoned 
to  the  field  by  their  rulers  and  have  themselves 
no  interest  or  stake  in  the  matter,  no  cause  at 

[259] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

issue,  no  passion  of  hatred  or  revenge  to  gratify; 
nor  is  there  any  true  interest  of  patriotism  to  be 
served  by  the  conflict  to  which  they  are  driven. 
However,  the  priests  are  on  hand  to  supply  the 
cordials  of  faith  and  absolution;  and  after  making 
the  usual  exhortation,  they  retire  to  the  rear. 

The  armies  are  now  face  to  face  and  almost  eye 
to  eye,  when  at  the  signal  for  battle  given  simul 
taneously  on  both  sides,  the  mighty  host  of  arrayed 
enemies  throw  down  their  weapons  and  with  one 
universal  hurrah  rush  into  each  other's  arms! 

In  that  tremendous  shout  the  Spectre  of  War 
vanishes  forever.  The  priests  and  the  vultures 
leave  the  field  where  the  Brotherhood  of  Man  cele 
brates  its  holy  rites.  The  rulers  abdicate  their 
thrones  and  the  Era  of  Humanity  begins.  .  .  . 

Who  would  not  prefer  the  picture  of  Karl 
Marx?  Who  would  not  do  what  in  him  lies  to 
speed  the  day  of  its  realization?  Who  does  not 
believe  that  what  is  now  happening  throughout 
Europe  makes  that  Day  as  inevitable  as  the  rising 
of  the  Sun  of  Justice! 


[260] 


TWO  PICTURES 

DEAD  MEN  are  not  the  only  fruit  of  war. 
Bellona  gives  life  as  well  as  death.  Venus 
and  Mars  are  the  most  ancient  of  lovers,  and  not 
the  least  fruitful.  Even  in  the  midst  of  slaughter 
and  destruction,  life  preserves  its  eternal  calcula 
tion  :  the  seeds  of  another  harvest  are  sown.  Death 
never  wholly  conquers;  Life  never  entirely  per 
ishes  :  they  are  equal  and  eternal  duelists. 

And  Life  goes  singing  to  Death  for  Love  has 
met  and  kissed  him  on  the  way.    Euoe  Bacche!— 
wait  for  the  harvest!   .    .    . 

Listen!  I  lay  no  claim  to  prophecy,  but  this  I 
will  hazard:  after  the  war  there  will  be  such  a 
bursting  forth  and  expansion  of  the  joy  of  life 
that  the  oldest  man  shall  not  remember  to  have 
seen  the  like.  The  world  will  go  en  fete  and  with 
the  harvests  gathered  on  a  hundred  battle-fields 
celebrate  the  return  of  happiness  and  hope  and 
security.  Euoe  Bacche!  From  the  lush  fruits  of 
harvest  gathered  above  the  deep  dreaming  dead, 
men  will  pluck  an  unwonted  desire  for  all  the 
sweets  of  life — as  if  those  who  fell  under  the  hand 
of  Death,  ere  they  might  taste  and  enjoy,  had  so 
bequeathed  their  longing.  Ah,  terrible  indeed 

[261] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

must  be  those  joys  that  shall '  content  both  the 
living  and  the  dead !  Think  of  the  countless  host 
of  young  men,  the  picked  flower  of  their  several 
races,  who  died  without  having  known  more  than 
the  desire  to  love. 

O  Hymen  Hymenae  io, 
O  Hymen  Hymenaee! 

They  that  fell  sleep  longing  for  a  red  lip  and 
a  white  bosom  will  not  be  wholly  cheated  of  their 
desire.  The  kisses  of  which  they  but  dreamed  will 
fructify  in  the  wondrous  harvest.  Happy  the 
lovers  that  survive! 

OH,  YES,  it  will  be  a  grand  time  for  Eros  and 
Bacchus  and  all  those  ancient  gods  and  god 
desses  whose  business  it  formerly  was  to  preside 
over  the  joys  of  human  life.  Indeed,  they  still 
revisit  us  from  time  to  time  and  take  a  hand  at 
their  old  functions,  though  we  call  them  by  ugly 
barbarian  names  and  pretend  to  cut  their  classic 
acquaintance.  They  will  all  come  back,  Pan  and 
Sylvanus,  the  ruddy  laughing  God  of  the  grape, 
and  droll  Silenus,  the  saucy  smiling  Eros,  the  fauns 
[262] 


TWO  PICTURES 

and  the  satyrs,  the  free  graces,  the  nymphs  and  the 
dryads,  to  hold  such  revels  as  have  not  been  enacted 
among  men  since  Olympus  went  out  of  fashion. 
Life  is  pagan,  death  is  Christian:  be  sure  the  old 
gods  will  not  fail  this  opportunity  to  repossess 
themselves  of  the  world  stolen  from  them  by  the 
Galilean.  At  least  they  will  make  a  glorious  try 
for  it.  Euoe  Bacche!  .  .  . 

Life  is  coming  back  from  death,  while  the  desire 
of  the  many  who  were  cut  off  in  their  bloom  will 
soon  burst  forth  in  wondrous  purple  harvests — 
aye!  in  an  efflorescence  of  joy  that  will  overspread 
the  whole  earth. 

We  have  mourned  long  enough  for  the  dead — 
soon  we  shall  drink  and  forget,  intoning  our 
Nunc  est  bibendum!  Life  is  for  the  living.  Love 
and  Beauty  and  Happiness  are  here  forevermore. 
Euoe  Bacche! 


[263] 


FIVE 

THE   COLLECTOR 

YOUR  TRUE  collector,  like  the  poet,  is  born 
— not  made.    'Tis  a  passion  that  shows  itself 
early  in  life,  even  as  doth  poetry.    Here,  alas,  the 
likeness  ends,  for  the  collector  survives  the  poet  in 
the  human  breast. 

Who  does  not  remember  the  schoolfellow  that 
won  away  all  his  marbles  and  those  of  the  other 
lads?  How  we  used  to  gape  and  wonder  at  his 
luck,  poor  simpletons! — it  was  but  the  nascent 
genius  of  the  collector.  I  recall,  as  a  thing  of  yes 
terday,  such  a  young  hunks  taking  me  to  his  home 
and  showing  me,  craftily  bunked  in  the  garret,  all 
his  "  shining  gain."  Aladdin's  treasure  was  beg 
garly  by  comparison.  I  still  feel  the  choking  envy 
that  rose  within  me  at  sight  of  that  glittering 
variegated  heap  of  alleys,  agates,  bullseyes,  and 
marbles.  Since  coming  to  years  of  maturity,  the 
[264] 


THE  COLLECTOR 

spectacle  of  no  man's  wealth  has  affected  me  half  so 
much.  And  as  I  stood  there  mumping  with  impo 
tent  desire  over  those  pellets  of  glass  and  clay,  I  felt 
a  strange  sinking  at  the  heart,  which  an  older  wis 
dom  translates  into  the  conviction  that  I  would 
never  become  a  collector.  The  presentiment  was 
only  too  well  founded — I  have  never  collected  any 
thing  that  the  world  sets  a  price  on,  and  to  this 
hour  I  stand  naked  outside  the  Kingdom  of 
Junk.  .  .  . 

That  collecting  (in  the  technical  sense)  is  car 
ried  to  a  point  of  unreason  by  many  persons,  may 
be  easily  granted.  In  strict  fact,  he  is  not  worthy 
the  proud  title  of  Collector  whose  hobby  appears 
anything  short  of  a  transcendent  passion  or  mania 
for  which  he  stands  ever  ready  to  risk  life,  limb, 
and  fortune.  Whip  me  those  paltry  varlets  and 
pretenders  who  affect  to  be  collectors  from  their 
base  economies  invested  in  the  sweepings  of  cheap 
auction  rooms: — it  is  not  with  such  canaille  we 
have  to  do  here. 

Collecting,  like  literature,  has  what  may  be 
called  the  grand  style,  which  to  achieve  in  some 
degree  confers  a  sort  of  brevet  or  patent  of  esteem, 
It  is  a  pursuit  that  has  aristocratic  affinities  on 

[  265  ] 


0 

t 

REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

every  side:  hence,  I  suspect,  the 'ardour  with  which 
it  is  followed  in  this  country. 

My  purpose  is  not  to  "  catalogue  "  the  collect 
ing  fraternity,  whose  name  is  Legion,  nor  to 
enumerate  the  objects  of  their  perquisition,  which 
span  alike  the  dictionary  and  the  industry  of  man. 
Even  to  mention  merely  the  principal  classes  of 
collectors  were  a  mighty  task.  I  content  myself 
with  glancing  only  at  the  collectors  of  printed 
things  from  Incunabula  and  Elzevirs  to  the  broken 
volumes  of  Papyrus.* 

T'other  day  I  was  politely  requested  by  a  firm 
of  Boston  book-sellers  to  state  "  what  special  line 
of  books  I  collected,"  a  blank  form  being  thought 
fully  provided  for  my  reply,  with  a  specimen  page 
of  a  sort  of  collectors'  Who's  Who,  which  the  said 
firm  is  to  bring  out. 

Really,  Messieurs,  you  do  me  too  much  honour! 
I  have  not  the  vanity  to  aspire  to  be  a  Collector, 
and  still  less — pardon  me — the  pertinent  and 
necessary  pecunia.  I  get  my  books  where  I  can, 
and  I  confess  to  a  partiality  for  hunting  them  out 
in  old-book  stalls,  those  repositories  of  the  only 

*The  Papyrus:    a  small  literary  monthly  edited  by  the  writer 
from  1903  to  1912. 

[266] 


THE  COLLECTOR 

"  second-hand  "  commerce  which  disgraces  not  the 
purchaser ;  and  I  pay  as  little  for  them  as  I  may. 
'Tis  a  traffic  that  appeals  to  me  with  its  seemly 
pretence  of  learning  on  the  part  of  the  dealer, 
and  that  air  of  obliging  you  which  no  other  mer 
chant  doth  assume.  But  no  "  special  line,"  if  you 
please,  echoing  my  Boston  inquisitors;  I  can  read 
any  sort  of  book  if  it  have  literary  life-blood  in  its 
veins.  The  counterfeits  of  such  I  abandon  to  the 
hieratic  or  professional  collector,  by  whom  they  are 
sometimes  fabulously  rated. 

I  suspect  the  vanity  of  exclusive  possession  is 
three-fourths  of  the  collecting  mania,  but  there 
can  be,  and  commonly  are,  subsidiary  motives, 
such  as  (I  regret  to  say)  pride  of  money,  snob 
bery,  the  itch  of  singularity,  pretence  of  learning, 
and  mere  pedantry.  Indeed,  though  it  irks  me  to 
censure  ever  so  lightly  any  devotee  of  the  gentle 
art,  it  may  not  be  denied  that  a  prevailing  type 
of  rich  book  collector  collects  for  his  own  credit 
and  public  repute,  rather  than  from  a  genuine  love 
of  learning  or  literature:  he  is,  as  a  witty  writer 
has  said,  a  man  with,  not  of  books.  Of  course,  I 
refer  only  to  the  American  species:  but  the  same 
reproach  has  been  often  alleged  against  his  Euro- 

[267] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

pean  fellow.  Horace  Walpole  is  the  model  that 
both  seek  to  pattern  by:  he  was,  as  Macaulay 
describes  him,  an  indefatigable  collector  of  worth 
less  trifles  and  a  prince  among  snobs.  But  he  had 
distinction  of  a  kind,  and  he  remains  the  polished, 
perverse  patron  of  rich  collectors  of  the  parvenu 
type. 

It  is  the  custom  of  our  American  journalists, 
who  love  to  mouth  money  above  all  things,  and 
therefore  print  no  end  of  nonsense  about  rich  col 
lectors,  to  congratulate  such  persons  fulsomely  on 
their  acquisitions,  and  to  ascribe  both  to  them  and 
their  "  treasures  "  an  importance  which  neither  can 
justify.  The  enormous  prices  alleged  in  the  news 
paper  chronicle  are  seldom,  if  ever,  paid;  the 
actual  value  to  the  public  of  some  of  the  costliest 
and  most  ambitious  enterprises  of  the  collector  is 
little  or  nothing.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  jour 
nalist  lackeying  the  rich  proves  an  unsafe  guide. 

But  my  cue  is  rather  the  mania  of  collecting 
per  S6j  of  which  Balzac  has  given  us  the  heroic 
example  in  "  Cousin  Pons."  That  is  a  sad  enough 
story,  in  all  conscience,  and  generally  speaking,  I 
fear  collectors  do  not  have  a  merry  time  of  it,  spite 
of  the  flattering  homage  of  the  newspapers  and 
[268] 


THE  COLLECTOR 

the  even  sweeter  envy  of  the  neighbours.  Their 
works  cannot  follow  them,  of  course,  when  they 
become  pulvis  et  umbra,  and  placens  uccor  (rarely 
in  sympathy  with  our  manias)  in  default  of  strict 
testamentary  injunction,  is  quick  to  hustle  a  life's 
accumulated  treasures  to  the  auction  rooms.  All 
are  dispersed  to  alien  hands,  and  Defunctus,  in 
stead  of  the  proud  memorial  bust  and  tablet  he  had 
promised  himself  in  some  great  library  or  museum, 
has  this  for  his  epitaph:  Vanitas  vanitatum! 

I  have  been  led  into  these  somewhat  drab  reflec 
tions  by  seeing  lately  advertised,  at  auction  sale,  a 
library  of  rare  books  belonging  to  a  collector  whom 
I  had  quite  intimately  known.  This  worthy  gen 
tleman  collected  from  as  honest  a  motive  as  any, 
yet  it  were  more  than  human  if  he  found  himself 
averse  to  the  sort  of  notice  heaped  upon  him  by 
fulsome  newspapers  and  flattering  friends.  His 
"  great  learning "  was  constantly  referred  to, 
which  he,  a  cultivated  man,  but  not  at  all  a  pro 
found  scholar  nor  privately  claiming  the  character, 
took  no  pains  to  deprecate.  And  certainly  there 
was  great  learning  in  his  house,  within  the  musty 
ancient  folios  or  black-letter  tomes,  in  the  acquisi 
tion  of  which  he  had  spent  a  considerable  fortune. 

[269] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

It  is  very  singular  how  a  ruling  passion  grows, 
and  surely  the  passion  of  collecting  is  no  excep 
tion. 

In  the  beginning  this  man  owned  his  books,  but 
when  the  mania  reached  its  height,  they  literally 
owned  him.  Showing  me  his  library  of  Incunabula 
— early  printed  books  in  Latin  which  he  could  not 
read  for  the  life  of  him — he  said  that  to  get  some 
volumes  which  would  fill  out  his  collection  he 
would  be  strongly  tempted  to  sacrifice  the  remain 
der  of  his  patrimony. 

This  was  certainly  the  vanity  of  possession,  for 
as  he  could  not  read  the  books  in  their  Latin  text, 
it  would  be  foolish  to  suppose  that  his  passion  was 
that  of  the  scholar.  No,  it  was  the  true  mania  of 
the  collector:  others  with  longer  purses  had  out 
bidden  him  in  his  desire,  and  the  fact  left  him 
craving  and  unhappy. 

I  can  not  myself  see  much  use  for  a  library  of 
books  mildewed  and  mummified  by  the  lapse  of 
centuries,  which  one  does  not  read,  and  scarcely 
dare  handle,  and  which  one  has  to  keep  in  fire 
proof  cases  or  at  the  Safe  Deposit.  (My  friend 
actually  kept  there  his  most  treasured  volumes.) 
A  book  is  the  most  familiar  creature  possible:  life 
[270] 


THE  COLLECTOR 

offers  us  little  to  rival  its  companionship.  Now 
to  lock  it  up  in  a  steel  box,  preserving  it  for  a 
barren  non-use,  seems  to  me  as  foolish  a  thing  as 
ever  man  conceived. 

Add  the  consideration  that  all  such  books  are  to 
be  had  in  plain  honest  English,  if  of  the  least 
value,  and  for  little  above  the  price  of  herrings,— 
and  really  I  don't  see  what  excuse  there  can  be 
for  such  learned  rubbish,  outside  a  museum.  That 
a  man  should  spend  his  money  and  his  life  in  the 
work  of  collecting  these  cast-off  reliquaries  of 
thought,  these  exuviae  of  erudition,  is  quite  beyond 
my  philosophy.  But  there,,  of  course,  is  the 
mania.  .  .  . 

And  I  will  not  say  (though  I  be  myself  lacking 
in  the  stuff  of  which  your  preuoc  collector  is  made) 
that  there  is  not  something  fine  and  heroic  in  the 
hobby.  It  is  a  passion  at  least,  and  a  man  with 
a  passion  may  be  condemnable  in  a  hundred  ways, 
but  he  cannot  fail  to  be  interesting  and  alive. 
This  is  always  true  of  the  greater  sort  of  collec 
tors:  their  strifes  and  emulations,  their  counter 
marches  and  campaigns,  have  something  Homeric 
about  them,  and  the  tale  is  one  to  which  the  world 
seldom  inclines  a  careless  ear.  .  .  . 

[271] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

When  Goodman  Grandet,  urged  by  greed  rather 
than  devotion,  snatches  at  the  silver  crucifix  in  his 
dying  convulsion,  we  are  not  shocked,  so  true  is 
the  touch  of  art;  and  we  applaud  Balzac  for  this 
bold  depiction  of  the  ruling  passion  strong  even 
in  death.  .  .  . 

To  live  a  collector  is  to  die  a  collector! 

I  doubt  not  that  my  friend's  last  conscious 
thought  was  of  his  books  and  of  the  enduring 
monument  they  would  raise  for  him  in  the  public 
remembrance.  Having  no  children  of  his  body,  he 
might  rely  on  them  alone  to  carry  his  name  to  a 
far  posterity.  Hence,  my  sorrow  at  seeing  them 
"  put  up  and  knocked  down,"  as  the  shop  phrase 
brutally  has  it,  at  public  auction.  It  was,  of  a 
truth,  in  ghastly  fashion  like  putting  the  man  him 
self  up  and  knocking  him  down;  and  I  did  not 
stay  to  see  how  his  treasures  went.  However,  the 
humour  of  the  situation  was  saved  by  the  presence 
of  his  brother  collectors,  competitors  in  the  acqui 
sition  of  Incunabula,  etc.,  who  seemed  eager  to 
despoil  him  as  they  will  in  turn  be  despoiled.  .  .  . 

Not  to  end  upon  a  sad  note,  I  urge  the  gentle 
reader,  if  he  is  not  now  a  collector,  to  become  one 
forthwith.  'Tis  an  amiable  passion  that  adds  a 
[272] 


THE  COLLECTOR 

great  zest  to  life — nay,  many  wise  persons  think, 
prolongs  it.  For  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  the 
years  of  desire  mark  that  term  of  life  in  which  we 
are  most  thoroughly  and  vitally  alive — not  an  inert 
nerve  or  pulse  anywhere.  Begin  then  to  collect, 
by  all  means  ( — there  are  my  own  trifling  Works 
and  the  aforementioned  broken  volumes  of  Papy 
rus).  For  to  desire  something  is  to  want  to  get 
or  collect  it:  and  whilst  we  collect  we  live! 


[273] 


SIX 

THE   PENMAN 

T'OTHER  DAY,  on  the  Main  street  of  our 
town,  I  saw  a  man  pursuing  tranquilly  an 
occupation  which  will  ere  long  be  listed  with  the 
abandoned  trades.  In  point  of  fact,  this  particu 
lar  craft  or  art  (as  I  might  almost  call  it)  is  little 
practised  nowadays,  and  seldom  seen  except  in 
country  places.  Even  there  it  has  much  descended 
from  its  pristine  dignity  and  has  something  of  a 
barely  tolerated  character,  while  its  practitioners 
have  fallen  to  the  level  of  street  fakirs. 

The  man  was  writing  cards  at  fifteen  cents  the 
dozen,  and  seemed  to  be  doing  a  brisk  trade. 
About  a  score  of  persons  were  gathered  about  his 
chair  and  table,  some  of  them  following  with  open 
mouth  his  curious  skill.  He  was  a  very  large  man 
for  such  delicate  work,  and  fat  withal,  but  still  he 
seemed  perfectly  cool,  good-natured  and  comfort 
able.  I  joined  the  group  of  his  patrons  and 
[274] 


THE  PENMAN 

admirers;  it  was  years  since  I  had  seen  anybody 
earning  a  livelihood  in  that  way. 

A  single  glance  told  me  that  he  was  master  of 
his  art  (really  I  must  call  it  so).  He  wrote  with 
astonishing  swiftness  and  perfect  execution;  never 
blotting,  or  spoiling,  or  making  a  false-stroke; 
turning  out  the  cards,  dozen  after  dozen,  with 
uniform  ease  and  celerity.  This  mountain  of  a 
man  had  yet  a  small  shapely  hand  which  traced  a 
script  that  an  angel  might  envy;  moreover,  with 
curves  and  flourishes  and  shading  that  vividly 
brought  back  to  me  that  terror  and  obsession  of 
my  school-days — the  Spencerian  Copy  Book! 

As  the  fat  man  pranced  and  pirouetted,  cut  the 
figure  eight,  looped  the  loop  and  did  everything 
imaginable  with  that  wonderful  pen  of  his — it 
stood  out  at  a  right  angle  from  the  holder  in  a 
knowing  fashion — I  ran  over  in  my  mind  some  of 
the  miseries  I  had  undergone  (the  whole  could 
not  be  told)  owing  to  this  cursed  Spencerian  pen 
manship. 


[275] 


0 

t 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

THE  SPENCERIAN  Copy  Book  shades  with 
horror  (I  am  too  sad  to  intend  a  pun) 
those  early  school-days;  even  now  I  can  not  recall 
it  without  a  sickening  sense  of  incapacity  and  fail 
ure.  Humbly  persuaded  am  I  that  no  clumsy- 
pawed  urchin  ever  made  a  worse  botch  of  the 
Spencerian.  The  most  prodigious  pains  resulted 
only  in  a  horrid  travesty,  and  a  cursed  trick  I  had 
of  smearing  the  page  at  the  last  moment,  necessi 
tating  a  fresh  copy,  gave  a  Sisyphean  cast  to  my 
labours.  The  fact  that  my  own  father  was  the 
teacher  made  things  almost  hopeless,  for  it  seemed 
harder  to  please  him  than  anybody  else,  and  when 
the  punitive  ruler  came  down  upon  my  poor 
awkward  young  fingers,  I  felt  that  despair 
which  childhood  only  knows,  even  more  than 
the  pain. 

What  a  fearful  tyranny  the  Spencerian  was,  and 
not  less  a  humbug!  For  how  in  common  sense 
could  a  fumbling  young  lad  be  expected  to  produce 
a  fair  copy  of  that  perfect  script  executed  by  the 
engraver's  art?  My  father  could  not  do  it  him 
self,  nor  many  another  teacher;  but  I  was  beaten 
for  my  failure.  As  well  beat  me  for  my  inability 
[276] 


THE  PENMAN 

to  walk  on  knives.  I  could  not  see  the  fairness 
of  it  then;  I  can  not  now.  O  those  burning  tears 
of  youth,  and  that  heart  choking  with  the  sense  of 
undeserved  punishment  and  injustice!  If  ever  I 
have  been  a  rebel  since  and  a  contemner  of  author 
ity,  if  ever  I  have  been  a  giber  and  a  scoffer  at 
things  conventional  or  of  the  Copy  Book  order, 
let  the  Spencerian  bear  the  blame! 

I  can  not  hope  by  any  effort  of  language  to 
express  my  envy  and  admiration  of  the  boy  who 
could  passably  imitate  the  Spencerian  headlines 
in  the  copy  books.  Such  a  phenomenon  turned  up 
from  time  to  time,  and  I  envied  and  admired  him 
with  a  sincerity  inspired  by  the  absolute  convic 
tion  that  I  should  not  be  able  to  do  likewise  in 
nine  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  years. 
As  to  that  point  my  judgment  was  precociously 
correct — I  still  write  what  is  technically  termed 
a  "  rotten  hand  "  (without  a  trace  of  the  Spen 
cerian  influence),  and  the  wise  printer  will  not  set 
up  my  copy  except  at  price  and  a  half.  The  test 
of  reading  it  is  the  hardest  I  can  propose  to  a 
stenographer — few  are  equal  to  the  same.  And 
to  be  strictly  candid,  I  now  and  then  throw  off 
a  page  of  caligraphic  beauty  (remote  from  the 

[277] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

Spencerian   model)    which   the*  writer   is   himself 
unable  to  decipher. 

The  Spencerian  has  thus  embittered  my  life,  for 
I  would  have  learned  the  typewriter  in  my  jour 
nalistic  period  (as  many  reporters  were  obliged  to 
do)  but  for  the  spirit  of  rebellion  and  ungodliness 
which  that  infernal  system  had  engendered  in  me. 
I  have  had  a  machine  in  my  house  these  dozen 
years,  but  I  have  never  learned  so  much  as  to 
print  my  name — for  the  same  reason.  My  present 
means  of  communicating  my  literary  expression  is 
about  as  choice  a  specimen  of  kakography  as  a 
captious  connoisseur  could  desire  to  see.  But  I 
know  what  it  cost  me  to  acquire  it,  in  spite  of  the 
Spencerian,  and  nothing  shall  ever  wrest  it  from 
me — not  even  a  typewriter!  For  in  clinging  to 
it  thus  stubbornly  and  passionately,  I  feel  that  I 
am  somehow  evening  accounts  with  the  monster 
that  desolated  my  tender  youth.  .  .  . 

THE  FAT  penman  wrote  right  along  while 
I  was  thinking  as  above,  and  I  reckon  he 
made  sixty  cents  while  I  was  losing  both  time  and 
money.  He  was  about  my  own  age  and  might 
easily  have  been  one  of  those  boy  wonders  at  my 
[278] 


THE  PENMAN 

father's  school,  who  could  do  anything  they  liked 
with  the  Spencerian.  (We  were  led  to  expect  that 
they  would  infallibly  get  to  be  president  of  the 
bank,  etc.,  but  somehow  they  always  came  short  of 
these  glorious  hopes.)  As  I  looked,  the  fat  man 
deftly  traced  a  lovely  swan  with  a  scroll  in  its  beak, 
bearing  the  name  of  a  young  lady  from  Rowayton, 
who  blushed  with  pleasure  as  she  received  it. 

The  fat  one  made  her  a  very  graceful  bow,  and 
the  tail  of  his  eye  descending  caught  mine  with 
a  barely  perceptible  wink.  There  was  drollery 
too  in  this  otiose  villain,  who  sat  enormous  but  at 
perfect  ease,  plying  his  little  pen;  while  we  his 
vulgar  clientele  gaped  and  sweated  round  him. 

An  artist,  I  said  to  myself,  turning  away,  and 
a  hero  as  well,  for  did  he  not  conquer  the  Spen 
cerian,  that  dragon  of  my  school  days?  But  unless 
an  apoplexy  helps  him  off,  I  fear  the  day  is  not 
far  distant  when  he  will  have  to  hunt  another  job. 


[279] 


SEVEN 

CHANTICLEER 

TV/TAN,  WHETHER  of  city  or  country,  is 
*•**•  largely  the  creature  of  habit. 

One  realizes  this  especially  in  regard  to  one's 
sleep — a  problem  that  perplexes  most  of  us  sooner 
or  later,  who  have  too  curiously  meddled  with  our 
brains.  And  after  trying  both,  one  discovers  that 
there  is  not  so  much  noise  in  the  city  nor  so  much 
quiet  in  the  country.  There  are  those  who  sleep 
soundly  and  those  who  sleep  badly  in  both  places. 
It  really  makes  no  difference.  Of  course  this 
corner  of  Connecticut  is  not  what  my  little  girl 
calls  the  "  really  real  "  country:  it  is  but,  so  to  say, 
semi-rural,  uniting  at  odd  times  and  in  an  exqui 
site  degree,  the  disadvantages  of  both  rus  and  urbs. 

But  my  argument  as  to  the  sleep  still  holds,  for 
the  poet  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  who  lives  at 
Tokeneke  in  the  deep  country  a  few  miles  from 
[280] 


CHANTICLEER 

me,  has  written  an  inspiring  poem  to  "  A  Bird 
at  Dawn." 

I  suspect  it  was  not  Richard's  choice  to  be  awake 
in  the  chilly  grey  morn  and  listen  to  the  ethereal 
bird.  Or  maybe  he  only  made-believe  to  have 
heard  it:  poets  are  long  on  imagination  anyway, 
and  most  of  'em  that  I  have  known  would  never 
have  heard  a  bird  at  dawn  unless  they  had  been 
out  all  night  on  a  lark! 

However,  if  we  take  Richard's  poetic  word  for 
it,  he  was  indeed  broad  awake  when  most  of  us 
want  to  be  asleep  and  heartily  curse  the  milkman 
or  the  neighbour's  dog  for  breaking  our  matutinal 
slumbers.  And  that's  the  point  that  concerns  us 
in  this  little  homily. 

When  we  lived  in  the  Big  City  I  used  to  have 
a  "  white  night "  from  time  to  time.  This  was 
due  not  so  much  to  early  piety  as  to  a  habit  I  had 
formed  of  reading  and  smoking  abed.  A  delicious 
habitude,  I  still  protest,  and  one  shrewdly  suited  to 
the  philosophic  temper;  but  I  must  allow  that  it 
has  certain  drawbacks.  There  was  a  risk  of  in 
voluntary  self-cremation,  which  kept  the  family 
in  a  state  of  expectant  terror.  There  were  occa 
sional  petty  damages  to  the  bed-clothes,  to  the 

[281] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

reader's  "  nighty  "  or  pajamas — the  small  toll  he 
paid  for  snatching  his  "  fearful  joy."  And  there 
was — worst  of  all  and  the  only  thing  that  moved 
him  to  real  remorse — the  speeding  up  of  the  mental 
wheels  that  led  to  the  inevitable  White  Night! 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  didn't  leave  it  behind 
me  in  the  city:  it  still  calls  on  me  from  time  to 
time,  although  lately  I  am  more  given  to  perpen 
dicular  smoking  (oh,  I  sometimes  taste  the  sweet 
ness  of  a  relapse!),  and  I  try  to  govern  the 
"  wheels  "  with  a  wiser  care.  Alas,  how  powerless 
are  we  to  control  that  strange  mechanism  which 
tyrannizes  over  our  life! 

But  I  do  not  fear  my  white  nights  so  much  as 
formerly  in  the  city,  where  one  was  crushed  and 
overborne  on  every  side  with  human  life :  here  there 
be  certain  dulcifying  circumstances  added  to  the 
old  Terror,  which  just  now  made  me  think  of 
Richard  and  his  "  Bird  at  Dawn."  He  does  not 
name  the  feathered  warbler  that  gave  him  his 
delightful  experience  and  indirectly  enriched  the 
world  with  a  new  joy.  A  bird,  he  says:  no  more. 
It  is  also  to  a  bird  that  I  owe  the  relief  that  has 
come  to  my  insomnia,  but  I  need  not  be  so  reticent 
as  the  poet: — my  bird  at  dawn  is  Chanticleer. 
[282] 


CHANTICLEER 

And  how  shall  I  describe  the  anodyne  he  brings 
me  under  the  stress  of  my  own  self-evoked  tor 
ture?  .  .  . 

It  is  always  the  same  fight  that  wears  out  the 
dark  hours.  I  try  to  think  that  I  am  not  trying 
to  go  to  sleep — the  prescription  of  some  heaven- 
born  genius ;  and,  as  always,  make  a  most  exquisite 
failure  of  it.  I  invent  weird  variations  upon  the 
usual  gymnastic  of  insomnia;  I  try  every  known 
posture  and  almost  fetch  up  standing  on  my  head. 
Then  I  say  to  myself,  "  This  is  foolish.  I  must 
not  contend  with  it.  I  must  simply  ignore — for 
get  it  and  go  passively  to  sleep."  Excellent!— 
and  I  proceed  to  lie  more  or  less  passively  awake 
for  hours.  The  humiliation  of  the  defeat — the 
consciousness  that  it  is  girding  at  one — that  is  per 
haps  the  worst  part  of  the  punishment. 

Sometimes  I  come  very  near  to  fooling  it  by 
listening  to  the  trains.  A  great  railroad  runs  not 
far  from  my  house,  and  goodness  knows  how  many 
trains  pass  to  and  fro  at  night.  It  is  curious  that 
I  never  give  them  a  momentary  attention  in  the 
daylight;  they  simply  mean  nothing  to  me.  But 
in  the  dark  night  when  I  lie  sleepless,  yet  perhaps 
not  in  full  waking  consciousness,  the  trains  domi- 

[283] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

nate  my  thought.  I  yield  myself  willingly  to  this 
obsession,  hoping  that  they  may  carry  me  away 
from  it: — and  sooth  to  say,  often  they  do.  These 
escapes  are  among  the  most  ticklish  experiences 
of  my  insomnia,  and  I  would  not  deny  that  there 
is  some  compensation  in  the  adventure. 

But,  at  best,  they  are  interludes  as  rare  as  fortu 
nate,  not  to  be  counted  upon  for  the  real  bad 
nights: — then,  however  patiently  I  listen  to  the 
long  roll  of  the  trains,  filling  our  quiet  valley  with 
the  shattering  thunder  of  their  advance  or  the 
mighty  echoes  of  their  retreat;  attentive  to  their 
distant  calls  and  signals,  a  formidable  antiphony, 
and  to  all  the  heart-moving  alarums  of  their  tre 
mendous  rallies  under  the  night  sky;  yet  am  I 
still  dry-eyed  and  feverishly  awake  when  the  earli 
est  raucous  mutterings  of  Chanticleer  from  his 
cooped  security  very  near,  begin  at  length  to 
unhinge  my  rigid  mind  and  incline  it  toward  sleep. 
He  is  the  true  warder  of  Morpheus: — what  sooth 
ing  peace  in  those  first  notes  that  irresistibly  invite 
one  to  snuggle  down  and  lose  the  tyranny  of  the 
night  watches  in  a  delicious  haven  of  rest!  How 
I  bless  the  homely,  domestic  bird,  true  friend  of 
man  and  eke  his  bountiful  provider,  beyond  any 
[284] 


CHANTICLEER 

bulbul  or  nightingale  or  lark  or  thrush  that  ever 
inspired  the  happiest  rhymes  of  poet.  Now  my 
senses  delicately  drowse  while  I  hear  the  Goodman 
telling  his  duteous  wives  that  he  is  about  to  bring 
back  day  and  light  again.  Admirable  boaster!— 
sapient  naturalist! — 'tis  not  I  would  say  thee  nay. 
I  catch  their  sleepy,  syncopated  remarks  of  loyal 
praise  and  admiration ;  but  I  am  quite  gone  over 
board  and  sunk  in  the  ocean  of  oblivion,  deeper 
than  plummet  e'er  sounded,  before  the  Coop  bursts 
into  full  matin  chorus. 

Ah,  Monsieur  le  Coq,  good  master  Gallus,  brave 
and  worthy  Chanticleer,  honest  lover  of  the  warm, 
brown  earth,  I  set  thee  above  the  feathered  vani 
ties  that  despise  thee  on  thy  dunghill.  Thy  hum 
ble  life  is  all  service  and  giving;  thou  art  besides 
a  model  citizen,  keeping  thy  wives  in  order  and 
acquitting  all  thy  duties  with  a  relishing  zeal.  I 
salute  thee,  ancient  witness  and  sharer  of  man's 
best  life,  and  were  I  a  poet  like  neighbour  Le 
Gallienne,  I  would  honour  thee  with  a  song  that 
should  put  to  blush  the  finest  madrigals  in  praise 
of  those  that  contemn  thee.  What  is,  forsooth,  all 
this  folderol  and  skimble-skamble  stuff  about  night 
ingales  and  birds  of  dawn,  etc.,  compared  to  thy 

[285] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

terrene  and  solid  virtues?  Gladly  I  avail  myself 
of  the  following  simple  yet  inspiring  verses  which 
but  do  thee  merited  honour,  and  for  which  I  am 
indebted  to  a  modest  poet  whose  virtues  court  the 
shade.  Heartily  I  endorse  his  sentiments  and  hope 
they  may  find  some  responsive  echo  in  a  world 
where  man  is  lowering  his  crest  and  the  hen-minded 
threaten  to  usurp  dominion. 

THE  COCK   CROW 

(Written  at  4  A.  M.  on  being  awakened  by  a 
rooster.) 

Greeting  to  thee,  oh  Chanticleer, 
That  hailest  the  rising  sun! 
Brave  herald  of  our  masculinity, 
Lord  of  the  barnyard, 
In  this  age  of  crowing  hens 
And  cackling  capons 
Whom  the  hens  do  scorn  and  peck; 
A  henpecked  age  that  says 
All  fowls  must  crow 
And  cackling  is  the  part 
Of  those  fc  weak  things  " 
Who  but  lay  eggs 
And  hatch  the  coming  generations. 
[286] 


CHANTICLEER 

Thy  head  erect,  thy  crest  and  plumes 

Proclaim  the  dominance  of  the  male. 

When  thou  thy  clarion  call  dost  still 

And  hens  borrow  thy  spurs  to  fight 

To  rule  the  roost, 

And  pluck  thy  plumes 

To  deck  themselves  withal, 

What  fate  is  thine,  O  noble  bird! 

What  spurious  call  is  that 

Which  greets  the.  setting  sun? 

The  crow  of  feminism's  strident  squeak, 

Its  brood  in  incubators, 

Letting  the  emancipated  mother  hens 

"Lead  their  own  lives," 

Repudiate  their  motherhood 

And  duties  to  their  race. 

Crow  on,  O  Chanticleer,  crow  on! 

For  when  thy  call  is  stilled, 

Then  race  is  dead,  and  art  is  dead, 

And  love  is  dead, 

And  unsexed  hens  can  neither  breed 

Nor  do  thine  errand  in  a  world  of  strife! 


[287] 


EIGHT 

THE  CIRCUS 

IT  IS  about  the  kalends  of  May  when  the  world 
grows  beautiful  again  under  the  touch  of 
Spring;  when  the  pain  and  uselessness  of  toilsome 
effort  presents  itself  as  an  overwhelmingly  new 
consideration;  when  all  out-of-doors  breathes  an 
irresistible  invitation  to  come  and  play;  when  in 
truth  everybody  hates  to  work  and  the  rural  school 
boy  incited  by  certain  flaming,  variegated  posters 
on  the  dead-walls,  thinks  of  playing  hookey  for 
good  and  running  away  with  the  circus,  and  hesi 
tates  only  between  the  choice  of  bareback  riding 
and  the  flying  trapeze.  I  pity  the  man  who  in  his 
youth  never  entertained  this  dazzling  idea,  and  I 
should  be  wary  of  doing  business  with  him. 

I  was  chewing  the  end  of  my  pen  this  morning 
and  waiting  for  an  idea — which  would  not  come, 
perhaps  because  I  was  not  voting  unanimously 
for  it — a  state  of  mental  recalcitrance  not  im- 
[288] 


THE  CIRCUS 

proved  by  the  chirping  of  an  ecstatic  robin  on  a 
maple  branch  just  outside  my  window — when  after 
some  hesitant  scuffling  the  attic  door  opened  and 
there  appeared  a  Delegation  composed  of  the 
Three  Youngest — aged  respectively  ten,  eight,  and 
five — who  with  a  unanimity  that  spoke  of  thorough 
rehearsal,  burst  out  clamorously— 

ff  Pa,  we.  want  you  to  take  us  to  the  Circus! " 

Bless  my  soul,  I  thought,  what  better  thing  can 
I  do?  And  as  the  weak  minority  of  me  thus 
yielded,  the  Idea  fled,  saying,  "  I  knew  all  along 
that  he  didn't  want  me  to-day."  Then  as  I  cast 
aside  my  work,  the  robin  trilled  forth  a  sarcastic 
roundelay — just  look  at  the  malice  of  that,  when 
he  knew  how  much  he  was  to  blame !  I  don't  care, 
I  said,  it  is  the  Spring — and  only  the  Circus 
can  give  you  a  real  chance  to  be  young  again 
with  the  kiddies.  It  is  their  Lupercal — perish  the 
task  that  would  forbid  these  joyous  rites!  Let 
them  lead  me,  I  said,  to  the  Aggregated  Marvels 
of  the  Mastodonic  Menagerie — to  the  glittering 
Ensemble  of  the  Picturesque  and  Panethnic  Pro 
cession — to  the  Riotous  Resilience  and  Rutilant 

[289] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

Splendour  of  the  Roman  Chariot  Race — to  the 
subordinate,  but  no  less  Seductive  Symposium  of 
Segregated  Wonders  in  the  Sideshows — yea,  even 
(Virtue,  be  calm!)  let  them  guide  my  fainting 
steps  to  the  Ten  Thousand  Dollar  Beauty  Show, 
to  that  Dazzling  and  Delicious  Divan  of  Diapha 
nous  Divinities — and  I  will  consume  peanuts  with 
the  youngest  of  'em.  Ma!  get  the  children  ready! 

WHEN  I  WAS  a  boy  in  a  little  town  on  the 
Mohawk  River  up  in  New  York  State — a 
town  that  was  very  much  alive  with  the  whir  of 
spindles  and  all  manner  of  factories — there  were 
two  overshadowing  events  in  the  year — Circus  and 
Fourth  o'  July.  Other  holidays  there  were,  of 
course,  but  none  of  them — not  even  Christmas — 
meant  anything  like  the  same  pleasure  and  antici 
pation  to  me.  Perhaps  because  I  was  the  kind 
of  boy  that  had  to  look  for  his  good  times  mainly 
on  the  outside.  I  fancy  most  motherless  boys, 
without  even  sisters  to  help  bring  them  up,  would 
be  of  my  taste  in  the  matter — a  taste  for  the 
sterner  holidays. 

Life  was  therefore  of  small  account  between 
Circus  and  Circus  (I  omit  from  present  considera- 
[290] 


THE  CIRCUS 

tion  the  glorious  Feast  of  Noise  and  Flame). 
I  tried  to  save  up  my  pennies,  not  easily  come  by, 
for  the  one  as  for  the  other;  but  from  an  early 
weakness  of  economy,  as  well  as  the  parental  par 
simony,  often  found  myself  without  the  means  of 
entertainment.  Something  like  despair  I  have 
known  since  as  a  man,  but  nothing  to  compare 
with  the  bottom-out-of-all-things,  end-of-the-world 
dejection  and  despondency  of  one  small  boy  with 
out  even  a  lonesome  nickel  to  bless  himself  with 
on  Circus  Day.  Do  you  wonder  that  the  Dele 
gation  mentioned  above  found  me  so  easy?  .  .  . 
What  an  event  was  the  coming  of  the  Circus  to 
the  small  boy  population  of  our  town!  Nothing 
else  was  thought  of,  from  the  appearance  of  the 
first  posters  to  the  arrival  of  the  show,  heralded 
by  strings  of  uncommon  looking  horses.  Not  the 
most  ordinary  courier  or  outrider  but  excited  the 
deepest  interest  and  was  the  object  of  endless  curi 
osity  and  speculation.  Whether  the  Circus  was 
big  or  just  medium  size  made  no  particular  mat 
ter  to  us — it  was  a  circus,  that  was  enough,  and 
we  were  equally  interested  whether  it  came  by 
special  train  with  imposing  cars  of  unwonted  con 
struction  for  the  menagerie,  or  just  rolled  into 

[291] 


REALITIES  AND  INV-ENTIONS 

town  by  the  turnpike  in  its  own  tented  wagons. 
It  was  romance  in  the  concrete — the  visualization 
of  wonder — the  reality  of  adventure  brought  near, 
all  accompanied  with  that  strange  plucking  at  the 
heart  which  only  boyhood  knows,  and  for  which 
it  is  most  to  be  envied  and  regretted. 

I  would  give  much  to  recall  my  feelings  when 
I  had  slept  with  one  eye  open  in  order  to  get  up 
at  cock-crow  to  see  the  Circus  pitch  its  tents  on 
Bilbrow's  field,  a  space  big  enough  for  a  Roman 
hippodrome.  But  of  this  I  am  sure,  that  romance 
has  never  spread  a  scene  of  such  enchantment  be 
fore  my  eyes.  Oh,  the  heart-stirring  excitement 
when  the  canvasmen, — those  extra-blasphemous 
navigators  of  the  circensian  ocean — raised  the 
great  centre-pole  of  the  Main  Tent!  It  might 
have  been  done  with  less  noise  and  swearing,  per 
haps,  but  would  it  have  impressed  me  half  so 
much?  How  cheerful  the  sight  of  them  messing 
in  the  open  air,  while  an  immensely  fat  and  good- 
natured  black  cook  roasted  huge  steaks  over  a 
cunning  camp  fire!  How  I  longed  to  get  away 
from  the  tyranny  of  tasks  and  to  be  a  part  of  that 
life,  so  free  and  careless,  yet  full  of  adventure  it 
seemed ;  and  how  I  envied  the  boy  who,  from  time 
[292] 


THE  CIRCUS 

to  time,  ran  away  with  the  Circus!  What  became 
of  that  hero  of  one's  early  admiration  seems,  by 
the  way,  as  profound  a  mystery  as  the  ordinary 
failure  of  the  head  boy  in  school  to  take  all  the 
prizes  in  after  life.  I  know  for  sure,  at  any  rate, 
that  he  never  got  to  own  the  Circus,  and  I  suspect 
he  paid  dearly  for  his  romantic  yearnings.  But 
as  a  boy,  I  would  have  enthusiastically  swapped 
any  future  whatever  for  his  chance. 

All  the  details  of  this  strange  nomadic  caravan 
life  appealed  to  the  boyish  sense  of  wonder,  which 
even  transfigured  the  rough  servants  of  the  scene, 
as  being  of  the  fellowship  of  Aladdin.  Those  can- 
vasmen,  for  instance,  were  the  toughest  lot  of 
rowdies  that  could  be  picked  up  by  the  manage 
ment,  skilled  in  assembling  that  sort  of  material. 
They  were  in  fact  chosen  for  their  fighting  ability 
and  disposition.  Their  manners  were  soft  and 
gentle  in  keeping.  I  do  not  believe  that  any  sort 
of  human  creature  has  ever  surpassed  the  circus- 
man  of  those  times  in  the  art  of  obscene  blasphemy. 
His  manners  may  be,  and  doubtless  are,  changed 
for  the  better,  and  he  is  now  selected  for  peace 
rather  than  war.  But  my  boyish  memory  is  still 
fain  to  dwell  on  him  as  a  spouting  geyser  of  to- 

[293] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

bacco-sprinkled  invective;  an  active  volcano,  so  to 
speak,  of  sulphurous  commination,  whose  cuss- 
words  were  merely  the  flowers  of  a  picturesque 
rhetoric.  In  point  of  fact,  the  circusman 
swore  rather  more  than  seemed  necessary  even 
in  his  trying  occupation,  and  I  suspect  that 
he  did  a  lot  of  cussing  just  to  keep  up  his 
courage.  There  was  some  occasion  for  this,  I 
promise  you. 

Rushing  the  canvasmen  was  in  those  days  a 
favourite  diversion  of  tough  youth :  hence,  the  mili 
tant  character  of  the  tanbark  retainers.  There 
were  places  that  the  stoutest  circusmen  feared  to 
"  make,"  on  account  of  the  battles  that  were  sure 
to  be  precipitated.  Broken  heads  were  not  the 
most  serious  result  of  these  scrimmages;  some 
times,  though  rarely,  a  life  was  taken  on  one  side 
or  the  other,  causing  a  bitter  feud  renewed  each 
year  on  the  visit  of  the  Circus.  On  this  account, 
there  were  not  a  few  towns  which  every  circus 
deemed  it  prudent  to  skip,  though  good  show 
towns  and  directly  in  their  circuit  (as  the  itinerary 
was  called). 

Our  own  town  was  pretty  bad  in  this  respect, 
owing  to  the  large  factory  element  in  the  popula- 
[294] 


THE  CIRCUS 

tion.  It  had  the  dishonour  of  raising  one  of  the 
worst  criminal  gangs  in  the  State,  the  members 
of  which,  after  consuming  their  youth  in  desperate 
feats  of  hardihood,  mostly  died  in  prison.  I  al 
ways  proudly  understood  that  our  town  (in  whose 
just  fame  for  badness  we  small  boys  rejoiced)  was 
one  of  those  places  the  circusmen  would  rather  have 
passed  by.  Certainly  I  saw  some  bloody  battles 
between  the  canvas  guardians  and  our  tough  youth, 
which  gave  an  added  spice  of  adventure  to  the 
marvels  of  the  Circus.  We  small  boys  often 
profited  by  these  encounters  to  scamper  under  the 
canvas  and  hoist  ourselves  to  stations  of  safety— 
a  perilous  feat  that  set  your  heart  thumping  for 
an  hour  thereafter.  But  it  meant  getting  some 
thing  more  out  of  the  Circus  than  the  nice  boy  did, 
whose  papa  or  mamma  carefully  ensconced  him 
in  a  reserved  seat,  with  a  disgusting  provision  of 
popcorn  and  peanuts.  All  great  experiences  are 
bought  at  a  price! 

I  never  see  nowadays  the  type  of  young  desper 
ado  who  used  then  to  affront  the  hardy  canvas- 
men  with  their  knotted  clubs.  He  trusted  to  his 
hard  fists  as  his  only  weapon,  though  his  skill  in 
tripping  the  adversary  was  not  the  least  brilliant 

[295] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

feature  of  his  attack.  Ye  gods  of  fistiana,  what 
a  rough-and-tumble  fighter  he  was!  —  really,  the 
battle  that  makes  the  sternest  test  of  mettle  and 
endurance.  But  alas!  I  sing  the  warriors  of  a 
past  generation.  Have  we  lost  the  secret  of  their 
breeding?  I  should  think  it  a  loss,  if  courage  is 
to  remain  among  the  virtues  of  the  sons  of  the 
people.  The  bold  lads  of  whom  I  speak  had  a 
rough  but  not  unworthy  code  of  honour:  they 
fought  fair  and  eschewed  the  weapons  of  the 
assassin. 


OMES  BACK  to  memory  now  the  pale  face 
and  undaunted  blue  eyes  of  the  picked  dare 
devil  of  them  all,  a  warlike  youth  called  "  Grinny  " 
Keogh.  There  was  a  certain  consonance  in  this 
queer  nickname,  arising  from  the  fact  of  his  being 
always  agrin,  even  when  most  minatory  and  dan 
gerous.  This  peculiarity  served  him  in  good  stead, 
for  it  usually  fooled  the  enemy  and  gave  him  leave 
to  get  in  the  first  blow,  which  was  the  heart  of 
his  tactics.  He  knew  not  what  fear  was,  and  he 
risked  life  and  liberty  to  win  and  keep  the  admira 
tion  of  his  fellows.  We  younger  ones  looked  up 
to  him  with  a  sort  of  idolatry  of  wonder,  which 
[296] 


THE  CIRCUS 

warms  me  even  at  this  distance — a  little  matter  of 
thirty-odd  years! 

I  see  "  Grinny  "  now,  with  one  or  two  lieuten 
ants,  facing  a  burly  canvasman,  while  we  younger 
ones,  standing  back  a  little,  look  on  in  a  ravish 
ment  of  terror  and  expectancy. 

"  Grinny "  is  smiling  his  pale  smile  while  he 
parleys  with  the  man,  who  is  guarding  a  stretch 
of  canvas  in  the  big  tent  which  offers  an  easy 
entrance.  The  boy,  though  smiling,  is  tensed  in 
all  his  slight  figure  for  action,  while  his  adversary 
stands  relaxed  and  careless,  not  dreaming  of  an 
attack. 

Suddenly  I  hear  "  Grinny "  say,  in  a  tone 
raised  for  our  attention—  '  We're  going  in  here, 
Rube,  and  you'd  better  not  let  on  to  notice  us." 

The  man's  face  changes  and  he  makes  as  if  to 
strike  the  daring  lad,  but  in  a  twinkling  "  Grinny  " 
lands  a  smashing  blow  and  the  canvasman  takes 
the  count,  while  a  raft  of  boys  scamper  under  the 
tent.  Often  have  I  seen  "  Grinny  "  walk  away 
composedly  after  shooing  in  fifteen  or  twenty  boys 
in  this  fashion.  It  is  true  that  I  have  now  and 
then  seen  some  boys  caught  on  the  inside  follow 
ing  such  a  raid  and  most  unmercifully  clubbed 

[297] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

— perhaps  a  few  of  them  bear  the  marks  to  this 
day.  But  that  never  deterred  the  rest  of  us 
when  "  Grinny  "  Keogh  gave  the  signal  for  rush 
ing  a  canvasman.  .  .  . 

I  should  hate  to  try  it  to-day — and  have  I  not 
said  that  the  breed  of  "  Grinny  "  Keogh  has  be 
come  extinct? — but  I  remain  convinced  that  no 
better  way  has  ever  been  thought  of  for  a  boy  to 
get  all  there  is  of  danger  and  delight  and  adven 
ture  out  of  the  Circus. 


[298] 


NINE 

NOCTURNE 

MY  GOD !  how  like  a  dream  life  passes!  To 
day  we  are  young,  with  endless  time  be 
fore  us,  free  to  postpone  our  most  daring  projects 
of  ambition,  of  glory  and  fame;  sure  of  ourselves, 
surer  still  of  the  vast  credit  of  years  we  have  at 
our  disposal;  content  to  dream  of  the  task  not 
yet  begun  and  to  anticipate  the  unearned  reward. 
To-morrow  we  are  of  a  sudden  grown  old,  and  all 
that  limitless  estate  of  time,  with  its  possibilities 
of  work  to  be  done  and  glory  to  be  achieved,  seems 
shrunken  to  a  hand's  breadth,  like  the  magic  skin 
in  Balzac's  fable.  All  we  know  is  that  Youth 
was  but  just  now  here,  and  lo!  it  is  gone.  .  .  . 

It  is  an  evening  in  early  summer  and  the  sky  is 
still  red  with  the  reflections  of  sunset.  The  man, 
of  middle  age,  sits  by  an  open  window,  holding  a 
book  which  he  appears  to  read ;  but  for  some  time 

[299] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

he  has  not  turned  a  page.  This  the  man's  wife, 
a  few  years  younger  than  he,  does  not  perceive 
from  her  station  on  the  other  side  of  the  room 
where,  seated  in  an  easy  chair,  she  is  dandling  a 
young  child.  Nor  is  she  conscious  of  her  hus 
band's  gaze  which  from  time  to  time  rests  upon 
her  with  a  curious  fixity  and  intentness  that  in 
cludes  the  living  woman  no  more  than  the  book 
in  his  hand. 

The  silence  has  not  been  broken  for  a  long  time, 
save  by  the  cooing  of  the  child:  married  persons 
of  middle  age  do  not  much  trouble  each  other  with 
unnecessary  conversation. 

His  glance  passes  over  the  infant  as  ignoring  it 
entirely,  rather  than  with  conscious  indifference. 
Evidently  it  is  not  his  child,  for  not  so  does  a  man 
of  middle  age  regard  such  a  pledge  of  love  when 
it  is  his  own.  And  though  the  woman's  form 
plainly  denotes  her  as  having  borne  many  children, 
there  is  lacking  in  her  manner  toward  the  babe  on 
her  lap  that  intangible  something  which  affirms 
the  mother. 

Let  us  peep  over  the  man's  shoulder  and  see 
what  he  reads  at  this  twilight  hour  in  the  Book 
of  his  Life. 
[300] 


NOCTURNE 

AH,  LIFE  was  good  then,  and  better  than 
they  knew,  in  the  prodigal  spirit  of  youth. 
How  sweet  she  was,  the  young  wife,  and  how 
graceful  her  slim  form  and  firm  waist  as  yet  un 
spoiled  by  child-bearing.  People  often  took  her 
for  the  sister  or  nurse  of  her  two  children.  He 
remembered  her  small  pretty  head,  with  the  deli 
cate  ears,  and  the  long  shapely  neck  which  he 
loved  to  kiss  when  she  was  doing  up  her  bright 
hair.  How  adorable  she  was  in  the  first  years  of 
their  marriage,  and  what  happiness  was  his  in  the 
fulness  of  youth  and  desire  and  possession!  Oh, 
that  enchanted  cup! — if  he  might  but  drain  it 
again,  how  would  he  linger  over  every  drop  and 
savour  its  sweetness  to  the  last!  And  he  cursed 
himself  for  a  spendthrift  who  had  taken  no  ac 
count  of  his  riches  until  all  was  gone. 

Then  there  came  back  to  mind  a  pretty  childish 
trick  of  hers  which  used  to  ravish  his  heart  with 
pleasure.  She  would  pretend  sometimes  to  plead 
for  a  kiss,  standing  on  tiptoe  and  making  a  comical 
imitation  of  a  poodle  that  "  begs."  Nothing  ever 
appeared  so  charming  to  him,  he  remembered  with 
a  pang  at  the  heart,  as  again  he  saw  that  lovely 

[301] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

laughing  face  before  him,  and  took  it  in  his  hands, 
and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

Ah,  my  God!  where  is  now  that  fairy  childlike 
form,  those  pleading  lips  and  eyes  in  which  youth 
incarnated  all  its  innocence  and  all  its  charm? 
Gone  as  utterly  as  though  the  earth  covered 
her.  .  .  . 

These  dear  joys  were  snatched  in  the  scant  lei 
sure  of  a  worker  on  the  press,  and  he  thought,  with 
a  curse,  of  the  furious  expenditure  of  energy  by 
which  he  purchased  that  little  home  nest.  His  job 
was  a  "  rotten  "  one,  in  newspaper  dialect,  being 
that  of  night  editor  on  a  morning  sheet  owned  by 
three  old  men  who  hated  and  envied  each  other 
as  only  journalists  can.  It  was  at  least  a  blessing 
that  they  went  home  at  night  and  left  him  to  get 
out  the  paper.  But  the  effort  required  to  please 
all  three  and  to  keep  clear  of  the  intrigues  always 
hatching  in  that  atmosphere  of  jealousy  and  sus 
picion,  made  his  place  hateful  to  him.  And  how 
miserably  they  paid  him  for  his  hard  service;  how 
cunningly  they  bargained  with  his  youth  and  in 
experience,  though  so  greedy  of  money  for  them 
selves  ! 

Then  he  reflected  that  newspapers  are  built  up 
[302] 


NOCTURNE 

on  the  wasted  forces  of  young  men  for  whom  the 
work  has  a  fascination,  with  its  false  challenge  to 
talent  and  ambition.  His  own  servitude  had  been 
long  enough,  God  knows,  consuming  the  flower 
of  his  youth,  and  often  he  lamented  with  helpless 
rage  those  bright  years  gone  down  forever  into 
that  Slough  of  Despond.  But  Youth  and  Love, 
in  their  eternal  fashion,  contrived  to  save  some 
thing  from  the  wreck.  There  was  this  memory, 
for  example,  which  now  summoned  echoes  in 
his  heart  like  those  awakened  by  an  old  love 
tune.  .  .  . 

He  worked  nights,  but  had  Sunday  off,  when 
some  member  of  the  staff  would  take  his  desk  and 
cherish  a  brief  dream  of  succeeding  him;  for  poor 
as  his  job  was,  everybody  wanted  it  in  that  house 
of  famine.  Also  the  three  old  men  varied  the 
monotony  of  plotting  against  one  another  by  fo 
menting  plots  among  the  staff,  which  sagacious 
policy  was  supposed  to  promote  esprit  de  corps. 

But  nothing  could  spoil  the  enjoyment  of  those 
Sundays  which  absolutely  were  his,  freed  from  the 
newspaper  grind  and  its  harassing  anxieties.  If 
the  rival  morning  paper  got  a  "  scoop  "  on  his 
substitute,  there  was  nothing  in  that  for  him  to 

[303] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

worry  about.  Nay,  perhaps,  as  he  was  not  him 
self  untouched  by  the  mean  spirit  of  the  place  and 
knew  the  calculations  of  the  whelps  around  him, 
it  might  afford  him  a  secret  satisfaction. 

Then,  on  fine  Sundays  in  summer,  they  always 
had  early  dinner  and  in  the  afternoon  went  for  a 
sail  on  the  river.  This  was  the  great  pleasure  of 
their  existence,  and  they  talked  about  it  from  one 
week's  end  to  the  other.  Nothing  was  allowed  to 
prevent  their  being  together  on  that  day,  and  they 
were  vexed  if  any  of  their  relations  came  to  see 
them.  You  see  they  were  still  lovers. 

The  sail  was  only  a  dozen  miles  or  so,  up  the 
river  and  back;  but  the  river  was  the  Hudson  and 
that  little  stretch  of  it  between  low  banks  lined 
with  frequent  houses  and  here  and  there  a  factory, 
though  perhaps  not  much  to  boast  of  and  certainly 
without  real  grandeur,  will  yet  always  seem  to 
him  the  loveliest  piece  of  scenery  in  the  world. 
And  to  make  quite  sure  that  the  illusion  will  re 
main,  he  has  never  revisited  the  place,  and  is  thus 
privileged  to  see  it  with  the  eyes  of  memory. 


[304] 


NOCTURNE 

THEY  WERE  always  a  bit  late  getting  to 
the  landing-place,  where  expectant  passen 
gers  were  cooped  up  until  sailing  time.  For  the 
young  wife  had  to  make  herself  very  fine  for  this 
grand  occasion,  with  her  best  frock  and  highly 
starched  linens;  and  besides,  there  were  the  two 
children,  a  boy  of  four  and  a  girl  of  two  years, 
that  had  to  be  dolled  up  until  the  last  possible 
moment.  Sometimes  a  little  vexed  at  her  delay, 
he  would  pretend  to  start  off  by  himself  with  the 
boy;  and  then  she  would  hurry  after  him  with  a 
rustling  of  starched  skirts  and  her  pretty  face  red 
from  the  exertion,  leading  or  carrying  the  little 
girl.  Oh,  they  often  tiffed  about  this  and  other 
trifles,  as  young  couples  do,  perhaps  to  purchase 
the  added  sweetness  of  making  up ;  but  they  loved 
each  other  well  for  all  that.  And  very  proud  he 
was  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  and  her  perfect 
health  that  made  her  seem  fragrant  as  a  flower. 
Proud  also  was  he  of  the  children,  pretty  like 
their  mother,  and  especially  of  the  boy,  his  first 
born. 

On  these   Sunday   outings,   the  latter   wore  a 
natty  sailor  suit,  and  his  activity  on  the  boat  was 

[305] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

such  as  to  keep  his  fond  parents  fully  occupied; 
hence,  they  were  always  tired  at  night-fall  and 
very  glad  when  the  little  steamer  pushed  her  nose 
into  the  home  slip. 

Sometimes,  in  spite  of  their  best  vigilance,  he 
would  escape  from  them  and  hide  somewhere  in 
the  murky  lower  quarters  of  the  boat  amid  the 
throbbing  machinery,  giving  them  no  end  of 
trouble  to  find  him.  Or  he  would  conceal  himself  in 
a  part  of  the  hold  where  he  could  almost  dangle  his 
feet  in  the  water.  Then  the  young  mother's  ter 
ror  would  be  great,  and  the  father  would  swear 
to  punish  the  urchin  severely — but  he  never  did. 
And  now  he  recalled  bitterly  the  many  years 
marred  by  the  waywardness  of  this  spoiled  first 
born. 

Commonly  the  boat  was  crowded  to  capacity, 
and  there  was  a  great  strife  for  seats  and  good 
places  in  the  bow  or  on  the  shady  side.  The  crowd 
was  sometimes  so  rough  and  disorderly  that  he 
wondered  what  he  should  do  in  case  of  an 
accident;  and  then  he  resolved  to  save  his  wife 
and  let  the  children  go;  not  without  an  agony 
as  acute  as  if  the  issue  were  actually  presented 
to  him. 
[306] 


NOCTURNE 

Sometimes,  after  embarking,  they  found  them 
selves  squeezed  against  the  rail,  each  with  a  child 
on  knee,  and  scarcely  able  to  move  hand  or  foot, 
while  the  little  steamer  raced  through  the  familiar 
landscape.  But  even  so,  they  were  happy,  smil 
ing  at  each  other,  and  thinking  of  their  mutual 
joys;  oftenest  of  all,  of  the  darkness  and  the  re 
turn  home. 

Usually  they  brought  a  lunch  and  got  beer  or 
soft  drinks  on  board.  Entertainment  of  a  sort 
was  furnished  on  these  trips  by  a  middle-aged 
German  and  his  wife,  both  very  fat,  and  their 
two  young  daughters.  The  man  tortured  a  fiddle 
of  ancient  and  disreputable  appearance,  the  woman 
drew  shrieks  out  of  a  battered  concertina,  and 
the  frauleins,  who  were  pretty  and  yellow-haired, 
sang  popular  songs.  Their  voices  were  sweet  and 
shrill,  and  their  cheeks  went  very  pink  when  they 
sang  this  refrain,  which  seemed  to  be  a  favourite 
with  the  Sunday  crowds  :— 

"She's  my  darling  Carrie! 
Yes,  the  girl  m  marry. 
Every  evening  just  at  eight, 
Standing  by  her  garden  gate" 
Etc.,  etc. 

[307] 


0 

t 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

This  beautiful  and  thrilling  ballad  was  especially 
called  for  on  the  return  trip,  when  the  shadows 
were  falling  and  the  lovers  on  board  drew  their 
chairs  nearer  for  company,  or  better  still,  some 
times  occupied  the  same  chair.  Then  the  fat  Ger 
man  gave  his  old  fiddle  a  rest  and  his  fat  wife 
ceased  to  torture  the  abused  concertina.  But  first 
a  collection  will  be  taken,  and  then  ladies  and 
shentlemens,  my  daughters  vill  sing  dot  lovely 
song,  "  Carrie." 

This  announcement  was  always  hailed  with  ap 
plause,  and  the  collection  was  usually  the  heaviest 
of  the  day,  causing  the  fat  couple  to  exchange 
winks  indicative  of  vast  contentment.  Finally  the 
girls  would  take  their  station  hand  in  hand,  where 
the  crowd  was  thickest  with  lovers,  and  set  up 
the  eternal  refrain.  Always  they  ended  with  this 
sentiment,  which  seemed  to  send  an  amorous  throb 
through  their  audience,  and  which  was  usually 
followed  by  the  sound  of  kisses,  scuffling  of  chairs, 
and  here  and  there  a  suppressed  shriek  amid  the 
crowd— 

(f  Oh  what  bliss, 
One  loving  kiss 
From  Car — rieJ" 
[308] 


NOCTURNE 

The  last  stanza  was  long  drawn  out  and  exe 
cuted  in  crescendo — it  never  failed  to  make  a  hit 
with  the  excursion  lovers.  And  though  our  mar 
ried  pair  laughed  at  the  silly  song,  and  the  young 
wife  looked  with  disapproval  at  the  violent  flirta 
tions  going  on  about  them,  there  was  something  in 
the  air  or  the  words  that  drew  their  hands  and 
hearts  together  and  whispered  to  them  of — Home! 


Here  the  middle-aged  man's  meditations  were 
broken  by  the  entrance  of  a  laughing  young  woman 
who  took  the  child  from  its  nurse's  arms,  saying: 
'  I'm  sure  you'll  think  I'm  imposing  on  you, 
Mamma,  with  this  baby  of  mine.  But "  —with 
an  ecstatic  hug — "she's  such  a  darling!"  Then 
flinging  a  glance  at  the  silent  man  by  the  win 
dow,— 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  look  so  glum,  Papa.  I  know 
you're  holding  it  against  me  because  I've  made 
you  a  grandfather,  a  little  before  your  time,  yes? 
But  for  such  a  perfect  love  of  a  darling  "  (series 
of  hugs) ,  "  who  wouldn't  put  up  with  a  little  thing 
like  that!" 


[309] 


TEN 

YEARNINGS 

YOUR  LETTER  gave  me  a  deep  thrill  of  in 
terest  and  emotion.  I  am  old  enough  to 
offer  you  this  as  a  genuine  compliment.  But  you 
are  wise,  and  you  know  that  age  does  not  count 
with  persons  of  the  idealistic  temperament,  in  mat 
ters  of  the  heart. 

Yet  I  am  not  happy  in  replying  to  you.  I 
dread  new  friendships,  especially  with  women, 
which  make  disturbing  claims  upon  a  writer  and 
interfere  with  his  work.  For  no  matter  how  much 
a  woman  may  protest  her  interest  in  your  artistic 
effort,  she  is  always  more  concerned  to  gain  your 
admiration  for  herself.  Fatally,  inevitably  she  is 
a  rival  to  your  work,  stealing  the  thought  from 
under  your  pen,  intruding  her  brow,  her  eyes,  her 
lips  between  you  and  the  face  of  your  Dream. 

Therefore,  I  pause  ere  I  seal  this  letter,  seized 
by  I  know  not  what  presentiment  of  evil  and  mis- 
[310] 


YEARNINGS 

fortune  from  an  act  so  simple.  But  our  expecta 
tion  of  blessings  from  the  unknown  is  so  strong, 
in  spite  of  dolorous  and  repeated  disillusions,  that 
I  end  by  taking  the  hazard — as  always ! — and  com 
mitting  to  the  post  the  letter  which  is  now  before 
you.  And  the  written  word  being  gone  beyond 
recall,  I  have  an  access  of  doubt  and  regret  which 
causes  me  the  most  poignant  misery. 

Faint  heart,  you  think,  or  perhaps  more  likely, 
the  cold  prudence  of  age?  .  .  . 

I  hasten  to  reassure  you — though  not  what  men 
call  young,  I  am  still  far  enough,  thank  God, 
from  what  women  call  old.  Indeed,  Madame,  I 
have  to  strive  constantly  against  this  incorrigible 
youth  of  the  heart — at  once  the  blessing  and  the 
curse  of  the  artistic  nature — lest  it  lead  me  into 
folly  unbecoming  my  years. 

But  do  not  mistake  me.  I  am  stronger  than  I 
long  was,  for  I  have  learned  that  Love  is  a  ter 
rible  wastrel.  And — pardon  me! — I  have  other 
honey  to  give  ere  my  course  be  run.  After  all, 
you  see,  the  sun  is  not  so  high  as  once  it  was,  and  I 
cannot  echo  my  youthful  boast,  that  a  woman  is 
the  only  thing  for  me  between  the  heavens  and  the 
earth.  Ah,  Madame!  I  have  been  thoroughly  tried 

[311] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

in  those  sweet  flames,  and  like  holy  Lawrence,  I 
was  anxious  that  the  fire  should  reach  every  part. 
But  one  must  pass  on,  after  all — and  especially, 
one  must  do  his  stint  of  work.  .  .  . 

Then  your  letter  came,  as  many  a  letter  has  come, 
and  an  old  unrest  of  the  heart  was  awakened. 
Why  did  I  feel  on  touching  your  unopened  letter, 
that  it  held  some  portentous  word  of  fate,  which 
not  to  hear  or  know  were  better  for  my  peace? 
Whence  these  intuitions,  sudden  lights  flashed  on 
the  soul,  which  seem  intended  to  warn  and  save 
us?  .  .  . 

I  looked  long  at  the  picture  of  the  beautiful 
woman  which  came  with  your  letter,  and  all  my 
old  cowardice  and  much  of  my  old  desire  awoke. 
Those  eyes,  that  mouth,  that  splendid  hair,  the 
whole  conquering  charm  and  beauty  of  you,  might 
well  have  overthrown  a  stronger  will  than  mine. 

Why  did  you  send  that  picture  if  you  were  con 
tent  merely  to  be,  as  you  said,  a  friend  standing 
in  the  shadow,  with  no  claim  upon  my  life?  Do 
you  not  see  that  by  this  act  of  yours,  you  have 
given  the  lie  to  your  gracious  promises?  I  might 
have  feared  you  less,  had  I  not  thus  early  learned 
how  much  there  is  to  fear! 
[312] 


YEARNINGS 

For  in  truth,  I  do  fear  this  mimic  semblance  of 
you,  as  if  it  were  the  living  woman  whom  I  have 
never  seen.  The  eyes  seem  to  burn  into  mine— 
the  lips  seem  to  plead  for  a  kiss — the  entire  sov 
ereign  seduction  of  you  transpires  from  the  pic 
tured  card.  Yes,  Madame,  rejoice  in  your  con 
quest!  I  do  fear  you;  and  I  put  away  the 
picture  where  its  insistent  gaze  may  not  affect 
my  nerves,  in  order  to  frame  a  reply  to  your 
letter.  .  .  . 

LET  ME  begin  by  granting  that  a  great  pas 
sion  is  the  highest  gift  that  can  fall  to  a  man 
of  the  artistic  temperament.  I  mean,  of  course, 
a  passion  which  soothing  and  satisfying,  yet  never 
cloying  the  physical  man,  shall  spur  the  artist  to 
the  fullest  exercise  of  his  talent.  I  will  even  grant 
that  the  artist  lacking  this  ideal  companion  and, 
in  a  sense,  collaborator,  must  fail  of  complete  ex 
pression.  Such  a  passion  means  to  him,  in  a  word, 
perfect  health  and  efficiency.  That  genius  gives 
the  best  account  of  itself  which  has  its  most  fruit 
ful  dreams  upon  the  bosom  of  love. 

Balzac,  much  as  he  feared  woman  as  the  most 
fatal  source  of  distraction  to  the  artist,  yet  knew, 

[313] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

as  he  knew  everything,  how  greatly  art  is  indebted 
to  her.  And  despite  the  famous  chapter  on  chas 
tity  in  "  Cousine  Bette,"  we  know  that  he  allowed 
himself  compensations  far  exceeding  his  written 
precept.  Nor  did  he  ever  let  go  the  fair  hand  of 
woman,  while  building  the  immense  edifice  of  the 
"  Human  Comedy,"  as  if  dreading  to  lose  the  one 
vital  source  of  inspiration.  During  nearly  twenty 
years — practically  the  entire  span  of  his  creative 
life — he  wrote  almost  daily  letters  to  Madame 
Hanska,  making  her,  as  it  were,  the  patron  saint 
of  his  achievement.  This  was  in  truth  the  greatest 
of  his  romances. 

Byron,  defending  his  connection  with  the  Guic- 
cioli — the  most  fortunate  of  his  friendships  with 
women — declares  in  a  letter  to  Moore  that  a  pas 
sion  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  mental  life  of 
a  poet.  Further,  he  avers  that  but  for  his  ad 
ventures  and  affaires  de  coeur,  he  would  have 
vegetated  in  obscurity,  voiceless  and  unknown,  like 
many  an  English  squire. 

But,  alas,  Madame,  how  rare  is  such  a  passion 
among  those  clever  but  unfortunate  people  who 
make  history,  or  biography,  or  scandal!  It  would 
seem  that  ideal  matings  are  reserved  to  the  com- 
[314] 


YEARNINGS 

mon  and  undistinguished  ones  of  the  earth,  or  even 
the  industrial  classes.  Who  has  not  witnessed  ex 
quisite  idyls  of  affection  among  the  poor  and 
lowly?  Plumbers  hit  off  the  grand  passion  more 
luckily  than  poets.  Haberdashers  are  more  hap 
pily  married  than  great  novelists  and  dramatists. 
Even  the  despised  race  of  vagrant  tinkers  can 
point  to  examples  of  conjugal  love  and  fidelity 
which  put  to  shame  the  chronicles  of  genius.  A 
wit  of  our  time  has  aptly  expressed  the  truth  in 
this  paraphrase  of  Gray's  famous  line — 

"  The  short  and  simple  scandals  of  the  poor," 

I  suspect  the  poets  have  bargained  ill  with  life, 
for  what  poem  ever  written  can  be  compared  to 
the  perfect  love  of  a  woman's  heart?  .  .  . 

You  remember  how  Daudet  explored  this  pain 
ful  yet  intensely  human  subject  in  his  "Artists' 
Wives,"  certainly  the  most  acute  and  searching, 
yet  withal  delicate,  analysis  of  the  whole  matter 
that  has  been  made.  What  a  charmingly  gentle 
chirurgeon  he  appears  in  probing  and  revealing 
these  lesions  of  the  heart!  What  bitter  truths  he 
tells  without  bitterness !  How  pathetic  these  trag- 

[315] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

edies  seem,  which,  upon  reflection,  we  are  as 
tonished  to  find,  present  only  the  common  stuff 
of  experience: — it  is  the  writer's  art  that  has 
wrought  the  illusion.  In  Daudet 's  book,  you  will 
find  every  type  of  incompatible  from  the  fool  who 
hates  her  husband's  talent  and  does  him  to  death 
with  her  ignorant  spleen,  to  the  sly  woman  of  the 
world  who  furthers  her  good  man's  interests  at  a 
certain  expense  to  him  unknown,  in  the  peculiar 
French  fashion. 

In  the  prologue  to  this  charming  book  (which 
only  a  Frenchman  could  have  written),  Daudet 
seems  to  hold  the  thesis  that  men  of  the  artistic 
vocation  should  not  marry,  the  risks  to  their  work 
being  so  great  in  an  ill-assorted  union.  By  way 
of  clinching  the  point,  he  does  not  report  a  single 
strictly  fortunate  instance  among  his  collection  of 
artists'  wives.  Daudet  was  himself  most  felici 
tously  married,  as  all  authorities  agree,  and  his 
book  seems  to  me  the  more  remarkable  on  this 
account. 

That  wonderful  short-sighted  observation  of  his, 
long  applied  to  the  world  of  Paris,  where  such 
examples  abound,  reports  only  tragedies  or  fail 
ures. 
[316] 


YEARNINGS 

Is  it  not  cruel,  Madame?  But  perhaps  you  ask, 
why  is  the  artist  so  tragically  liable  to  the  mis 
fortunes  of  marriage?  Let  me  answer  in  the 
words  of  Daudet.  The  first  and  greatest  danger 
of  marriage,  he  says,  is  the  loss  or  degradation  of 
one's  talent.  The  ordinary  run  of  men  are,  of 
course,  exempted  from  this  observation.  :<  But 
for  all  of  us,  poets,  painters,  sculptors,  musicians, 
who  live  outside  of  life,  wholly  occupied  in  study 
ing  it,  in  reproducing  it,  holding  ourselves  always 
a  little  remote  from  it,  as  one  steps  back  from  a 
picture  the  better  to  see  it,  I  say  that  marriage 
can  only  be  the  exception.  To  that  nervous,  ex 
acting,  impressionable  being,  that  child-man  that 
we  call  the  artist,  a  special  type  of  woman  almost 
impossible  to  find,  is  needful;  and  the  safest  thing 
to  do  is  not  to  look  for  her" 

BUT  IS  the  artist  more  fortunate,  Madame, 
in  seeking  outside  of  marriage,  in  relations 
condemned  by  religion  and  the  social  law,  that 
peace  and  joy  which  only  union  with  a  beloved 
woman  can  give?  I  will  not  deny  that  such  con 
nections  occasionally  seem  to  favour  the  painting 
of  pictures  and  the  writing  of  poetry  or  music— 

[317] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

the  paucity  of  the  known  instances  and  the  celeb 
rity  of  the  persons  lending  to  these  a  significance 
which  they  may  not  properly  claim.  Such  friend 
ships,  of  the  left  hand,  are  scarcely  to  be  spoken 
of  in  this  country,  though  our  reticence  on  the 
point  is  no  proof  that  they  do  not  exist — I  believe 
indeed  that  relations  of  this  kind,  more  shrewdly 
concealed  than  in  Europe,  are  far  less  uncommon 
than  our  conventional  hypocrisy  would  allow. 

Granting  so  much,  what  pledge  of  happiness  do 
they  offer  the  artist? — what  hope  of  continuance, 
of  fidelity  and  security?  I  believe  in  nothing  so 
much  as  in  miracles,  Madame,  yet  there  is  but  one 
answer  to  these  questions.  .  .  . 

Alas,  there  is  danger  wherever  we  turn.  The 
Platonic  friendship  has  long  since  been  laughed 
out  of  court — it  is  possible  only  to  the  old  or  in 
firm  or  sexually  deficient.  In  the  case  of  two 
normal  persons,  it  is  bound  to  end  in  possession, 
or — what  is  not  so  well  known — in  hatred  on  one 
side  or  the  other.  The  man  hates  the  woman  who 
gives  much  without  giving  all;  the  woman  hates 
the  man  who  fears  to  take  all  while  taking  much. 
The  sense  of  an  unpaid  debt  leaves  them  perma 
nently  wrong  toward  each  other.  We  touch  here 
[318] 


YEARNINGS 

the  secret  source  of  those  wonderful  acrimonies 
which  are  often  disclosed  among  persons  whose 
lives  had  seemed  an  open  book.  I  should  add  that 
in  these  affairs,  the  woman  is  always  more  bitter 
and  unforgiving  than  the  man.  With  that  spe 
cial  divination  reserved  to  your  adorable  sex,  you 
will  readily  understand  why,  Madame.  .  .  . 

Let  me  conclude,  dear  unknown  Friend,  by  ask 
ing  of  you  that  which  I  fear  to  be  impossible  for 
us  both.  Remain  unknown — unseen — unapproach 
able:  yet  a  light  in  the  shadow,  a  hope  in  the 
emptiness  of  barren  years,  a  cordial  to  the  often 
weary  heart  and  drooping  spirit!  Let  me  wor 
ship  you  in  secret — at  once  a  glory  and  an  illu 
sion — like  the  unknown  masterpiece  of  Balzac's 
painter.  Let  us,  even  like  that  infatuated  artist, 
wise  with  the  prescience  of  genius,  forbid  ourselves 
a  meeting,  a  disclosure  which  could  only  put  an 
end  to  our  dream.  Be  and  forever  remain  the  un 
known  masterpiece  of  my  soul! 

Write  to  me  sometimes,  but — even  better — learn 
to  speak  to  me  in  the  Silence  .  .  .  this  is  in  truth 
the  test  of  that  higher  love  to  which  we  both 
aspire.  Do  not,  I  pray  you,  ask  me  to  come  to 
see  you  ...  ah,  my  God!  why  did  you  send 

[319] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

that  picture?  .  .  .  Rather  send  the  voiceless  as 
surance  of  your  love  to  me  as  from  a  convent 
sanctuary  whose  high  walls  and  vigilant  guardians 
keep  us  forever  apart. 

Can  you  obey  me  in  all  this? 

"Yes!"  I  hear  you  cry,  with  a  dolorous  and 
passionate  eagerness.  But  even  in  the  accents  of 
that  solemn  pledge  of  renunciation,  I  detect  the 
tone  with  which  you  will  welcome  me  to  your 
arms,  and  I  know  my  feet  to  be  set  in  the  ways 
that  lead  to  you! 

T  *  THEN  THE  writer  had  traced  the  last  word 
*  *  of  the  foregoing  letter,  his  brow  was  a  little 
pale  From  the  effort  of  composition  and  also  from 
the  emotion  which  his  thoughts  had  induced. 
Sinking  back  in  the  deep  study  chair,  he  clasped 
his  hands  above  his  head  with  an  habitual  gesture, 
and  said  to  himself  in  a  half -vexed  way: 

:c  I  swear  this  foolishness  gets  a  man,  in  spite  of 
himself.  No  aid  to  seduction  so  potent  as  the 
imagination!  " 

At  this  moment  the  wife  of  his  bosom  entered 
the  room  and  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  forehead. 
Then  with  conjugal  assurance,  picking  up  the 
[320] 


YEARNINGS 

scattered  sheets  on  his  writing  table,  she  glanced 
carelessly  over  them. 

"Ah,"  she  remarked  indifferently,  in  no  wise 
affected  by  the  real  or  simulated  passion  of  the 
written  words,  "  so  the  women  of  unsatisfied  yearn 
ings  are  after  you  again?  Poor  dear! — what  a 
bore  to  have  to  write  such  people." 

"  My  love,"  replied  her  husband,  a  little  wearily, 
"  when  they  stop  writing  at  last  it  will  mean  trou 
ble  of  a  more  serious  kind;  for  I  shall  then  know 
that  I  have  lost  my  '  punch.' ' 

"  Ye-es,"  she  assented  abstractedly,  still  looking 
through  the  manuscript;  "  but  her  picture  that  you 
speak  of  so  warmly — where  is  it?  "  And  her  tone 
became  staccato  all  of  a  sudden,  seemed  to  admif 
of  no  trifling. 

"  My  dear,"  he  rejoined  in  conciliatory  fashion, 

"  I  did  not  want  a  recurrence  of — you  know  what 

-(he  winced  as  he  spoke)  and  so  I  destroyed  it." 

Their  eyes  fully  met  and  she  held  his  long,  but 
he  did  not  waver. 

e  You  are  a  dear,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "  and  also — though  I  your  wife  say  it— 
an  artist! " 

[321] 


ELEVEN 

PLATONICS 

I  BELIEVE  it  never  has  been  settled  whether 
a  true  friendship,  without  love,  is  possible  be 
tween  the  sexes.  Candid  philosophers  say  not. 
They  argue  that  friendship  as  understood  between 
men,  "  passing  the  love  of  woman,"  requires  above 
all  things  a  logical  mind,  and  this  they  deny  to 
the  softer  sex.  Hence  the  noble  friendships  so 
often  occurring  among  men,  free  from  the  taint 
of  selfishness  and  appealing  to  the  higher  sympa 
thies  of  our  nature,  are  (they  say)  impossible  be 
tween  men  and  women.  Sex  is  the  preventing 
cause. 

However,  other  philosophers  have  held  the  con 
trary  with  no  small  show  of  reason.  Now  and 
then  they  have  even  made  experiments  in  their 
own  persons — as,  for  example,  Abelard — with  re 
sults  which,  while  not  absolutely  confirming  their 
[322] 


PLATONICS 

theories,  have  afforded  some  of  the  most  amusing 
literature  in  the  world. 

To  a  simple  mind,  indeed,  the  spectacle  of  a 
philosopher  meddling  with  Platonics  calls  up  the 
familiar  image  of  the  monkey  and  the  buzz-saw. 
But  all  things  are  not  essentially  as  they  appear 
to  the  simple  mind. 

So  the  problem  remains  unsolved  and  of  peren 
nial  fascination. 

Let  me  state  it  more  frankly:  Can  a  man  and 
a  woman  of  no  great  disparity  in  point  of  age  and 
temperament  have  a  close,  hearty,  and  genuine 
friendship  without  any  element  of  sexual  love 
entering  therein? 

Isn't  it  a  hard  one?  And  what  one  of  us  has 
not  puzzled  his  head  and  sometimes  hurt  his  heart 
over  it? 

The  French,  to  be  sure,  have  blazed  a  warning 
for  us  in  their  famous  adage:  "A  woman  either 
loves  or  hates." 

An  epigram,  you  say,  and  only  a  half-truth  at 
best.  Ah,  but  who  shall  give  us  the  whole  truth 
as  to  any  human  proposition?  And  what  a  pierc 
ing  half-truth  it  is !  The  more  I  learn  of  the  sex — 
and,  please  God,  I  shall  be  always  learning,  lov- 

[323] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

ing,  and  suffering  through  them — the  more  I  am 
convinced  that  it  applies  to  them  universally. 

Oh,  yes,  she  must  love  or  hate — there  is  no 
middle  way.  And  if  this  be  true  or  only  half 
true,  it  needs  no  argument  to  prove  how  vainly 
men  sometimes  seek  a  perfect  friendship  with 
women — a  friendship  without  the  crosses  and  the 
delights  of  love.  I  doubt  if  such  a  friendship  is 
ever  in  a  woman's  thought.  Recall  your  expe 
riences.  The  moment  a  woman  takes  you  up  as 
a  friend  she  loves  you,  though  she  may  not  admit 
the  fact  to  herself:  the  moment  she  puts  you  down 
she  hates  you.  It  is  quite  a  bewildering  expe 
rience  for  the  man,  handicapped  as  he  is  by  the 
logical  faculty;  but  no  doubt  it  has  some  secret 
satisfaction  for  the  woman.  To  be  much  loved  is 
therefore  to  be  much  hated :  that  is  the  bitter  half 
of  the  apple. 

For,  alas!  it  is  true  that  woman's  love  is  near 
akin  to  hate — "  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing,"  as 
sang  a  poet  who  had  drained  the  cup  to  the  dregs. 
I  sometimes  wonder  is  either  quality  to  be  found 
unmixed  with  the  other?  Can  we  have  love  with 
out  hate  or  hate  without  love?  The  only  glimpse 
of  hatred  I  have  ever  had  that  quite  appalled  me 
[324] 


PLATONICS 

was  from  one  who  had  loved  me  very  much — in 
a  trice,  by  one  glance  from  a  woman's  eyes,  I  was 
whirled  from  a  green  and  smiling  Paradise  into 
a  lurid  Hell.  .  .  .  Ah,  happy  they  who  neither 
love  nor  hate! 

A  man  who  has  had  some  interesting  friendships 
with  women  of  talent  confides  to  me  that  the 
cause  of  their  usual  failure  is  the  feminine  lack 
of  logic.  A  woman,  he  says,  wants  to  monopolize 
you  in  friendship  as  in  love.  You  must  have 
no  friends  save  of  her  choosing.  You  must  take 
over  and  make  your  own  her  private  antipathies 
and  prejudices.  You  must  like  where  she  likes, 
dislike  where  she  dislikes,  and,  in  short,  see  the 
world  through  her  eyes.  The  arrangement  by 
which  two  men  agree  to  hold  each  other  in  the 
firmest  friendship  without  regard  to  the  fact  that 
a  third  man  may  be  heartily  loved  by  the  one 
and  as  heartily  hated  by  the  other — that  logical 
adjustment  of  relations  which  keeps  the  world  in 
balance,  is  a  function  peculiar  to  the  masculine 
mind  and  is  looked  upon  by  women  as  monstrous 
and  immoral.  Hence  the  impossibility  of  holding 
such  friendships  with  them  as  were  the  dream  of 
Plato,  or  even  such  wholesome,  agreeable,  and 

[325] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

mutually  profitable  relations  as  we  so  often  see 
subsisting  between  men. 

My  friend  also  mentioned,  as  a  curious  experi 
ence  of  his  in  a  Platonic  way,  that  women  import 
into  their  friendships  with  men — irreproachable 
friendships,  of  course — that  somewhat  cruel,  feline 
and  punishing  spirit  which  they  are  said  to  mani 
fest  toward  their  lovers  and  husbands,  recipients 
of  their  most  intimate  favours.  A  confirmed  and 
perfect  Platonist,  my  friend  justly  felt  that  any 
and  every  symptom  of  sexual  love  should  be  rigour- 
ously  excluded  from  an  ideal  friendship  between 
man  and  woman.  But  he  was  obliged  to  confess 
that  nothing  was  so  trying,  in  his  harmless  com 
merce  with  women,  as  the  effort  to  secure  this 
condition;  and  often  he  was  made  to  feel  that, 
though  the  caresses  of  love  were  not  reserved  for 
him,  he  got  more  than  a  due  share  of  the  scratches. 

So  far  I  went  willingly  whither  my  friend  led 
me.  But  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  a  stronger 
hand  was  leading  us  both  back  to  the  original 
difficulty,  the  crux  of  the  problem — I  mean  the 
impossibility  of  the  sexes  meeting  on  any  common 
ground  but  that  of  sex. 

And  there  we  dropped  the  matter,  as  many  a 
[326] 


PLATONICS 

wiser  man  has  done  since  the  days  of  Plato,  and 
as  whoso  neglects  to  do  shall  gather  fruit  to  his 
sorrow.  .  .  . 

Moral?    Oh,  yes!  she  must  either  love  or  hate. 


[327] 


TWELVE 

FALSE   YOUTH 

THE  PASSIONS  make  trouble  for  us  during 
the  greater  part  of  our  lives,  and  it  may  be 
true  that,  in  a  sense,  they  are  themselves  the 
deepest  potential  proof  of  life.  Many  people  un 
doubtedly  cultivate  and  cherish  their  passions  on 
this  presumption;  some  such  are  of  our  familiar 
acquaintance,  while  there  be  famous  instances  in 
Holy  Writ  and  in  the  profane  but  no  less  inspired 
pages  of  Balzac.  Instead  of  giving  thanks,  like 
Sophocles,  that  age  has  freed  them  from  the  tyr 
anny  of  carnal  desires,  they  dread  more  than  any 
thing  the  cessation  of  these,  and  they  pray  that 
their  torments  may  continue  with  them  to  the  end. 
It  is  a  common  error  to  suppose  that  the  most 
tragic  and  violent  effects  of  passion  are  limited  to 
youth:  an  error  too  much  fostered  by  popular 
romances,  as  well  as  the  public  reserve  maintained 
on  this  subject.  Such  exceptions  as  force  them- 
[328] 


FALSE  YOUTH 

selves  upon  the  public  notice  from  time  to  time 
are  dismissed  as  abnormal,  and  society  refuses  to 
discuss  the  matter. 

No,  it  is  not  Youth  that  furnishes  the  darkest, 
the  most  fatal  and  convulsing  dramas  of  passion, 
but  rather  that  period  of  life  we  call  middle  age, 
beginning  in  man  at  the  forty-fifth,  in  woman  at 
the  thirty-fifth  year.  Then  or  thereabouts  com 
mences  for  both  a  season  of  false  youth,  the  Indian 
Summer  of  the  sexual  passions,  during  which  de 
sire  is  felt  with  a  violence  and  exacerbation  never 
known  before.  Especially  is  this  apt  to  be  the 
case  if  either  the  man  or  the  woman  have  ceased 
to  love  his  or  he,r  partner  and  is  tempted  to  seek 
another  object  of  passion:  a  lamentably  common 
incident. 

The  state  is  one  that  demands  for  the  fullest 
understanding  thereof  a  psychological  as  well  as 
physiological  explanation,  which  it  is  not  my  busi 
ness  to  offer.  But  this  I  will  say:  the  malady  of 
false  youth  is  largely  induced  by  the  fear  of  age, 
with  consequent  loss  of  the  power  of  pleasing  the 
opposite  sex.  It  may  be  that  such  fear  is  stronger 
in  women  than  in  men:  the  reserve  which  females 
maintain  on  the  subject  and  the  mystery  with 

[329] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

which  it  is  enveloped  yield  no  positive  clue.  In 
this,  as  in  other  respects,  woman  keeps  her  secret; 
yet  certain  inklings,  such  as  the  revelations  of 
Karin  Michaelis,  in  her  book,  "  The  Dangerous 
Age,"  leave  us  to  infer  that  there  is  little  differ 
ence  between  the  sexes  on  this  point.  That  both 
men  and  women  alike  dread  the  end  of  sex-life, 
and  the  latter  the  more  since  it  means  the  loss  of 
their  greatest  power,  are  conclusions  that  may  be 
frankly  accepted.  Hence  that  element  of  hardi 
hood,  of  recklessness  and  desperation  in  the  pas 
sions  of  middle  age  which  so  often  shocks  us  in 
actual  life,  so  as  to  merit  the  Latin  appellation 
nefanda — meaning  things  forbidden  to  be  spoken 
of,  or  under  the  taboo  of  Nature  herself.  Such 
incidents  tempt  at  once  and  dishearten  the  por- 
trayers  of  life.  For  the  world  will  not  have  such 
disorders  exhibited,  except  under  conditions  very 
difficult;  it  turns  away  from  the  most  powerful 
depiction  thereof  in  book  or  play  as  something 
monstrous  and  unfit  for  art.  Balzac  indeed  ex 
plored  this  as  every  other  sinister  province  in  life, 
but  it  remains  a  question  whether  he  is  not  more 
hated  than  admired  for  it;  for  the  world  dislikes 
to  hear,  quite  as  much  as  it  needs  to  realize,  the 
[330] 


FALSE  YOUTH 

terrible  truths  set  forth  with  such  unsparing  real 
ism  in  "  Cousine  Bette." 

Even  as  such  things  are  passed  by  in  fiction  or 
remain  still-born  in  drama,  so  are  they  hushed  up 
and  smothered  in  the  reality  of  every-day  exist 
ence.  Truth  of  this  sort  is  indeed  stranger  than 
fiction,  but  society  will  not  have  it  on  any  terms; 
rightly  it  feels  that  behind  such  explosions  of  ill- 
timed  passion  are  forces  that,  if  let  loose,  would 
tear  the  social  structure  to  pieces. 

The  passion  of  youth  is  ever  regarded  as  an 
amabilis  insania,  and  all  things  are  pardoned  to 
it  by  grace  of  its  talisman,  Romance.  We  are  not 
offended  by  the  sweet  unconscious  immodesties  of 
Juliet,  nor  careful  to  provide  an  expurgated  ver 
sion  for  our  children;  her  story  remains  an  open 
page  to  each  new  generation  of  maidenhood.  But 
the  world  refuses  to  admit  a  romantic  interest  in 
the  amorous  disorders  of  the  middle-aged;  it  sees 
only  the  fearful  nature  of  the  scandal  threatening 
the  peace  and  honour  of  families — the  shock  of  a 
revelation  which  upsets  the  established  belief  in 
virtue. 

All  the  world  loves  a  lover,  it  is  true,  but  not 
an  old  lover.  Had  Romeo  and  Juliet  been  of 

[331] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

middle-age  we  would  never  have  heard  of  their 
sweet  folly  or  star-crossed  love ;  Shakespeare  would 
not  have  immortalized  nor  the  world  canonized 
them;  and  it  is  very  doubtful  if  a  fugitive  echo 
had  reached  us  of  the  two  old  fools  of  Verona! 

So  it  is  that  such  passions  and  tragedies  of  the 
middle-aged,  though  always  occurring,  are  seldom 
exposed  to  the  naked  censorship  of  public  opinion. 
The  honour  of  the  community  is  engaged,  as  by  an 
unwritten  law,  to  suppress  such  scandals,  and 
even  the  newspapers  are  apt  to  leave  them  alone. 
But  we  have  all  heard  of  such,  and  we  shall  con 
tinue  to  hear  of  them  so  long  as  the  elements  of 
human  nature  remain  as  they  are.  There  is 
no  change  in  the  eternal  Decameron  of  human 
passion. 

I  have  referred  to  the  boldness  and  hardihood, 
the  extreme  daring  which  often  mark  the  "  ro 
mances  "  of  elderly  persons;  indeed  they  quite 
match  or  even  surpass  anything  recorded  in  the 
Book  of  Youth.  The  type  of  Ninon  is  far  from 
being  an  uncommon  one  among  women.  Elderly 
Romeos  are  taking  the  fatal  draught,  elderly 
Juliets  are  following  suit  every  day;  or  both  are 
coming  by  their  desire  without  tragic  denouement, 
[332] 


FALSE  YOUTH 

beyond  the  occasional  breaking  up  of  a  family  on 
either  side.  In  any  case,  high  courage  is  required 
for  the  business,  which  is  apt  to  alternate  between 
tragic  risks  and  a  perilous  sort  of  comedy. 

Perhaps  such  misadventures  would  not  happen 
so  often  if  the  world  would  but  cure  itself  of  these 
persisting  illusions,  namely:— 

Its  inexpugnable  belief  in  female  virtue  and  its 
incurable  superstition  that  children  preserve  and 
guarantee  a  woman  against  temptation. 

Its  equally  persistent  and  absurd  notion  that 
middle  age  separates  a  woman  from  passion  and 
its  liabilities. 

Its  foolish  persuasion  that  woman  is  different 
from  man  in  regard  to  the  laws  governing  her 
sexual  life. 

False  youth  comes  to  both,  and  for  the  woman 
no  less  than  the  man  it  is  potent  to  tear  up  the 
rooted  sacred  ties  of  life,  flout  the  honour  of  mar 
riage,  corrupt  the  innocence  of  childhood,  and 
turn  the  sanctuary  of  home  into  a  romping  place 
for  devils! 

Think  not,  Mr.  Safe-Husband,  that  you  may 
lay  aside  all  anxiety  concerning  your  dear  wife, 
because  forsooth  she  has  passed  her  prime  and  the 

[333] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

tints  of  autumn  begin  to  mark  her  beauty.  Nay, 
now  indeed  you  shall  do  well  to  love  her  and  court 
her  and  cherish  her  and  watch  her  as  never  before : 
of  a  truth  there  be  wolves  abroad  and  anigh  who 
would  not  scorn  your  one  ewe  lamb.  Are  you  a 
bit  wanton  and  lickerish  yourself,  though  a  good 
husband  as  men  go,  and  do  you  with  a  full  share 
of  that  amiable  conceit  which  hath  been  the  cuck 
olding  of  many  a  simpleton,  take  it  to  be  a  man's 
privilege,  etc.? — the  discerning  reader  will  easily 
supply  the  rest. 

Have  a  care  lest  she  learn  the  trick  from  you, 
when  it  shall  go  hard  but  she  will  better  the 
lesson — mayhap  to  the  sorrow  and  confusion  of 
your  house! 


[334] 


THIRTEEN 

GHOSTS 

1  BELIEVE  in  ghosts.  But  hear  me — I  mean 
ghosts  of  the  living,  not  of  the  dead.  Ghosts 
that  you  can  see  at  noonday.  Ghosts  that  excite 
no  fear  and  that  present  nothing  spectral  to  the 
eye.  Ghosts  to  us  alone! — not  to  themselves  or 
to  the  indifferent  crowd. 

They  are,  first  of  all,  the  women  whom  we  have 
loved,  perhaps  too  well,  and  who  loved  us  in  re 
turn,  or  made  us  so  believe:  but  who  are  now  as 
if  dead  to  us,  as  we  are  dead  to  them. 

Do  not  ask  why — a  stupid  question.  There  are 
a  hundred  reasons  for  the  thing. 

It  was  but  yesterday  you  stood  very  near  a 
charming  little  ghost  of  this  species,  and  she  was 
not  aware  of  your  presence.  You  were  both  in 
a  crowd  at  the  Grand  Central  Station  and  you 
stood  just  behind  her.  In  days  that  are  past,  she 
would  have  "  sensed  "  you  at  once  had  you  been 

[335] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

farther  away.  In  love  as  in  hate  we  are  gifted 
with  a  second  sight.  But  now  she  was  totally 
unconscious  that  your  breath  fell  on  her  right  ear. 
The  seat  of  telepathy  is  in  the  heart,  you  see,  and 
you  two  no  longer  thought  of  each  other — save 
as  ghosts. 

And  yet  it  was  not  so  very  long  ago  that  a  casual 
meeting  would  have  filled  you  both  with  joy — you 
know  it,  for  there  are  some  things  a  woman  cannot 
dissemble.  You  thought  the  same  thoughts,  and 
sometimes  expressed  them  in  the  same  words,  to 
your  mutual  fond  amusement.  Merely  to  lunch 
with  her  was  a  liberal  education  (if  the  shade  of 
Dick  Steele  will  tolerate  the  paraphrase).  No 
sooner  had  you  left  her  than  you  went  home  and 
wrote  to  her  the  things  which  you  had  forgotten  or 
feared  to  say  (she  always  knew  they  would  come) . 
And  even  in  sleep  you  could  not  break  the  spell  of 
her  possession  of  you,  which  she  maintained  by  a 
hundred  quite  innocent  and  exquisite  seductions: 
now  that  it  is  all  a  closed  chapter  you  are  glad  that 
they  were  innocent — that  nothing  really  came  of 
it.  Nothing  in  your  life  was  ever  so  sweet  or  so 
much  to  be  regretted. 

Oh,  heart  of  mine  (you  apostrophize  her  warily 
[336] 


GHOSTS 

and  wordlessly)  but  a  little  while  ago  I  would 
have  followed  you  to  the  ridge  of  the  world,  and 
the  desire  of  you  seemed  the  whole  of  life.  And 
yet  here  I  am  standing  so  near  that  I  might 
touch  you  with  my  hand,  but  not  the  less  I 
know  you  to  be  at  an  irrecoverable  distance 
from  me,  and  so  my  heart  is  strangely  at  peace — 
my  heart  that  would  once  have  burst  at  the 
enforced  silence!  .  .  . 

You  could  see  that  there  was  an  expression  of 
calm  wifely  dignity  on  her  face,  the  reflection  of 
a  tranquil,  assured,  and  conventional  happiness. 
She  was  still  pretty,  but  without  a  certain  bird- 
like  coquetry  of  allure  incompatible  with  the  mar 
ried  state.  And  you  recollected  the  charming 
little  moue  she  sometimes  made  when  teasing  you. 
.  .  .  But,  as  you  were  saying,  the  lady  is  now 
a  ghost!  .  .  . 

WHAT  STRANGE  emotion  quickens  the 
heart  on  coming  face  to  face  unexpectedly 
with  one  of  those  animated  spectres  who  bear  a 
relation  to  us  quite  different  from  the  rest  of  the 
breathing  world !  As  I  have  said,  a  kind  of  second 
sight  seems  called  into  play  by  this  melancholy 

[337] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

rencontre,  for  you  see  the  living-dead  with  a  weird 
and  startling  clearness — as  one  sees  the  face  of 
an  enemy  in  a  dream! — yet  almost  without  con 
sciously  observing  him.  And  all  the  time  you  feel 
as  if  a  cold  wind  blew  upon  you  and  you  stood 
in  the  very  presence  of  Fate.  And  without  eye 
meeting  eye  or  by  any  the  least  sign  giving  token 
of  recognition,  you  feel  yourself  subjected  to  the 
like  terrible  stripping  and  scrutiny  by  the  x-ray 
of  hate  that  once  was  love. 

Such  meetings  are  very  unpleasant,  but  they 
help  you  to  realize  that  life  is  not  all  bridge  and 
marmalade. 

Just  the  other  day,  in  this  fashion,  I  encountered 
my  old  crony  Whiffles  for  the  first  time  in  the 
dozen  years  since  our  alienation.  I  never  did  you 
wrong,  O  Whiffles,  and  if  you  wronged  me,  your 
friend,  I  forgive  you;  but  ghosts  we  shall  be  to 
each  other  until  the  Great  Release.  .  .  . 

A  good  fellow  Whiffles,  and  I  was  fond  of  him, 
in  spite  of  his  terrible  Scotch  egotism  and  his 
tyrannous  rule  of  the  talk  (never  was  such  a 
coursing  tongue  hung  in  a  Scotchman's  jowl), 
and  his  variant,  flyaway  humours.  A  very  human 
creature  withal,  of  a  spirit  that  often  threw  out 
[  338  ] 


GHOSTS 

strange  lights  that  seemed  to  portend  no  common 
destiny. 

Maybe  I  liked  him  the  better  for  his  roaring 
Keltic  faults,  seeing  that  he  could  be  as  tender 
and  faithful  a  friend  as  our  favourite  Alan  Breck 
(in  those  days  Robert  Louis  was  our  god  and  a 
bond  betwixt  us), — and  hang  it!  youth  is  of  a 
grand  tolerance  when  its  loyalty  and  affection  are 
engaged.  I  knew  men  who  constantly  longed  and 
daily  vowed  to  smash  Whiffles,  but  his  anfractu- 
osities  pleased  me,  like  a  sauce  piquante. 

How  did  we  break?  A  stupid  thing  to  ask, 
since  the  finest  and  firmest  friendships  are  dis 
solved  every  hour  for  the  veriest  trifle.  The 
wonder  would  be  if  there  were  ever  a  real  cause! 

Then  I  almost  ran  into  the  arms  of  this  old 
friend  with  whom  I  have  shared  some  of  the  best 
hours  of  my  youth,  while  we  talked  and  drank  our 
fill  and  disputed  each  other's  pet  opinions.  I  say 
I  liked  Whiffles  and  so  at  times  I  would  affect  to 
give  in,  else  he  might  have  brought  a  sickness  on 
himself  with  his  lust  to  overcome  me.  But  I  never 
really  was  vanquished  or  convinced  by  the  man. 
And  yet  I  should  ask  nothing  better  than  to  go 
back  through  those  long  years  of  estrangement 

[339] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

and  hold  head  to  him  again  over  the  drink  and 
the  debate. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  almost  I  tumbled  into  his 
arms;  but  the  sight  of  a  living  ghost  acts  marvel 
lously  in  restoring  one's  self-possession,  and  I  got 
a  grip  on  myself  just  in  time  to  avoid  an  awkward 
situation.  Maybe  they  know  in  Heaven  just  how 
long  I  parried  an  impulse  to  take  him  by  the  hand 
in  the  name  of  our  old  comradeship — it  was  a 
space  too  brief  to  estimate  as  we  reckon  time  here 
below.  But  in  these  affairs  the  heart  is  ruled  by 
a  sure  intuition.  Whiffles  and  I  exchanged  the 
x-ray  of  the  alienated  and  passed  each  other  as 
strangers.  ...  A  tall  man,  with  a  reddish-grey 
beard  (it  flamed  like  his  temper  when  I  knew 
him),  the  least  supernatural  person  in  appearance 
that  you  could  wish  to  look  on;  but  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  as  veritable  a  ghost  as  ever  walked 
the  ways  of  the  living.  .  .  . 

DO  NOT  think  to  frighten  me  with  tales  of  the 
dead  who  leave  their  resting  graves  at  night 
to  pursue  some  uncanny  mission.  The  churchyard 
never  held  a  fear  for  me,  and  if  the  dead  walked 
my  path,  I  would  brush  them  from  me  like  sum- 
[340] 


GHOSTS 

mer  insects.  Ah!  believe  me,  the  grave  never  pro 
duced  a  pang  like  that  seizure  of  the  heart,  that 
death-in-life  sensation  with  which  we  must  greet 
a  living  ghost  from  out  our  past,  though  seen  at 
noon-day.  I  am  fey  for  days  after  seeing  one- 
even  such  a  rosy  blue-eyed  spectre  as  the  little 
woman  mentioned  above. 

Do  you  wonder,  then,  that  I  hold  to  this  position : 
-If  there  must  be  ghosts,  let  them  come  from 
death,  not  life! 


[341] 


FOURTEEN 

THE   AGE   OF   SAFETY 

NOT  LONG  ago  a  sly  little  troll  of  a  Scandi 
navian  woman  put  forth  a  book  which  she 
called  "  The  Dangerous  Age."  It  made  some 
thing  of  a  pother,  owing  to  the  frankness  of  the 
author  in  dealing  with  matters  of  sex  that  are, 
generally  speaking,  taboo  with  us.  One  expects 
a  literary  woman  to  go  far  along  this  line  (inde 
cency  is  her  forte  when  she  really  sets  out  to  shock 
us),  but  the  little  Scandinavian  person  went  the 
limit.  And  she  quite  riddled  the  old  notion  that 
virtue  is  a  matter  of  geography,  as  expressed  in 
Byron's  couplet— 

What  men  call  gallantry  and  gods  adultery, 

Is  much  more  common  where  the  climate's  sultry. 

I  was  myself  surprised  that  in  the  frozen  North 
there  could  be  such  prurient  consideration  of  a 
theme  which  is  usually  left  to  the  Latin  South  for 
[342] 


THE  AGE  OF  SAFETY 

congenial  literary  treatment.  Undoubtedly,  that 
aided  the  modest  author  in  her  evident  purpose 
to  make  a  scandal  and  a  sensation,  in  which  she 
perfectly  succeeded. 

The  little  Scandinavian  woman  made  even 
wicked  Lutetia  stare  with  her  frank  disclosure 
of  certain  things  which  women  are  never  supposed 
to  reveal,  save  in  the  most  intimate  confidences 
among  themselves.  She  broke  the  Law  of  Sex, 
or  in  male  parlance,  "  struck  below  the  belt,"  and 
thereby  forfeited  the  sympathy  and  support  of 
women.  Therefore,  her  visit  to  this  country  was 
a  failure:  even  Madame  New  York  could  not 
tolerate  a  woman  who  boldly  avowed,  through  the 
heroine  of  her  fiction,  that  she  liked  men  to  go 
unbathed — with  the  charm  about  them  of  Horace's 
(f  olentis  hirci! "  Moreover,  she  had  humiliated  all 
womanhood  by  revealing  secrets  of  the  gyneceum 
never  whispered  before,  thus  affording  new 
weapons  to  the  common  enemy  Man!  It  was 
too  much  even  for  the  robust  candour  which 
certain  advanced  females  among  us  import  into 
their  discussions  of  Sex.  Charlotte  Perkins  Gilman 
positively  refused  to  meet  this  imprudent  sister  of 
the  North — and  what  could  you  expect  after  that? 

[343] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

Her  visit  to  America  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  failure 
socially,  and  I  suspect  her  publishers  were  not 
much  in  pocket  thereby. 

However,  it  must  be  allowed  that  her  book  was 
a  good  deal  of  a  success,  and  got  itself  read  and 
wrangled  about  pretty  much  the  world  over.  She 
had  "  told  on  "  her  sex,  as  perhaps  never  woman 
writer  had  done  before.  Unlovely  as  the  revela 
tion  was,  that  was  enough  to  make  her  book  sought 
after  by  all  manner  of  people.  Men  liked  it  much 
better  than  women,  for  an  obvious  reason — it  had 
snatched  away  the  veil  from  the  inscrutability 
of  sex. 

But  there  is  a  larger  profit  for  them  in  this 
book,  if  they  will  consider  it  rightly.  Karin 
Michaelis  named  as  the  "  dangerous  age "  the 
middle  term  of  life  at  which  a  woman  ordinarily 
ceases  to  exert  a  physical  fascination  upon  men. 
She  must  then  resign  herself  to  be  no  longer  sued 
and  pursued,  courted  and  caressed,  and  she  can 
no  longer  hope  to  occupy  a  disproportionate  share 
of  one  man's  time,  or  of  that  of  many,  if  she  be 
plurally  disposed.  All  is  finished  for  her:  she  can 
neither  give  the  disease  nor  impart  the  remedy; 
and  she  is  effaced  as  a  source  of  the  most  insidious 
[344] 


THE  AGE  OF  SAFETY 

and  universal  trouble  that  the  world  has  ever 
known. 

Is  it  not  sad,  Mesdames? — and  who  could  blame 
you  for  being  vexed  with  this  odious  little  Scandi 
navian  and  her  hatefully  candid  book?  .  .  . 

But  looking  now  to  the  advantage  of  my  own 
sex,  I  see  not  why  the  Dangerous  Age  for  women 
should  not  be  the  Age  of  Safety  for  men,  and  I 
wish  it  might  occur  as  early  for  the  one  as  for  the 
other. 

WHAT  THINKING  man  but  has  rejoiced 
at  the  end  of  that  long  slavery,  so  often 
ignoble  in  its  basis,  to  which  he  has  sacrificed  his 
golden  years?  Oh,  the  blind  worship  of  dolls,  red- 
lipped  and  long-haired  and  bauble-eyed,  by  which 
a  man  gets  no  profit  of  his  youth  and  often  goes 
maimed  all  his  days!  Oh,  the  cursed  tyranny  of 
the  flesh,  to  which  strength  yields  up  its  best 
sinews,  genius  its  highest  aspirations,  ambition  its 
loftiest  dreams!  What  tragedies  are  to  be  laid  to 
it! — secret  tragedies  from  which  the  world  bleeds, 
though  it  dare  not  publish  them.  What  worse 
tragedy  than  that  of  the  hatred  and  alienation 
which  too  often  mark  the  end  of  this  bondage 

[345] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

of  the  flesh  for  both  man  and  woman!  When, 
oh  when  will  the  world  learn  to  use  this  thing  as  a 
blessing  instead  of  a  plague  and  a  curse?  .  .  . 
Not  very  soon,  it  is  to  be  feared ;  but  the  sooner, 
we  may  hope,  when  men  and  women  alike,  instead 
of  lamenting  the  end  of  sexual  domination  or  seek 
ing  to  prolong  it,  shall  rather  rejoice  at  regaining 
their  freedom.  It  is  a  degrading  yoke,  as  we 
know,  which  presses  many  almost  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  Some  of  the  ancient  poets  not  in 
aptly  saw  in  it  the  malice  of  the  gods,  and  Sopho 
cles  gave  public  thanks  when  he  was  at  length 
freed  from  the  stings  of  desire  (that  he  was  then 
about  eighty  does  not  damage  the  present  moral) . 
In  our  civilization  it  prevents  the  full  development 
of  the  race — perhaps  we  can  not  conceive  what  men 
and  women  would  look  like,  or  what  their  intel 
lectual  possibilities  would  be,  without  the  handi 
cap  imposed  upon  them  by  countless  ages  of  sex 
ual  slavery.  So  deeply  rooted  is  it,  both  in  the 
strength  and  the  weakness  of  humanity,  so  con 
firmed  by  the  sanction  of  religion  and  the  pre 
scription  of  immemorial  habit,  that  a  real  reform 
can  be  hoped  for  only  among  the  ultimate  emanci 
pations  of  the  race.  .  .  . 
[346] 


FIFTEEN 

REST 

THIS  LITTLE  word  is  one  of  the  sweetest 
and  most  consoling  of  our  common  speech. 

Merely  to  utter  it  gives  one  pause,  for  many 
are  its  pious  and  healing  implications.  If  nothing 
more,  it  conveys  the  image  of  a  great  hush  and  the 
fall  of  cooling,  noiseless  waters  on  ears  closed  to 
the  sensuous  challenge  of  life. 

It  expresses  an  idea  which  is  cherished  in  the 
innermost  heart  of  humanity,  as  if  in  obedience 
to  some  Divine  instinct.  Also  it  signifies  one  of 
the  great  illusions  that  make  the  hardest  life  not 
merely  endurable  but  spiced  with  a  single  element 
of  romance. 

But  nothing  can  be  said  on  this  subject  which 
is  not  trite,  the  theme  being  one  of  the  eternal 
staples  of  human  gossip  and  speculation.  As, 
without  the  hope  of  rest  some  day,  who  would  have 
strength  or  will  to  go  on  with  his  burden?  Or, 

[347] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

it  is  the  one  light  that  never  quite  fails  us  in  our 
journey  to  the  grave.  Perhaps  of  all  the  sayings 
of  JESUS,,  the  most  touching,  the  one  that  has 
found  deepest  echo  in  the  heart  of  humanity,  is 
this:  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

The  promise  of  rest  is  one  that  every  man  makes 
himself,  from  the  poorest  to  the  richest.  Nay,  the 
need  of  it  levels  all  distinctions  of  fortune,  for 
the  rich  man  has  a  proverbial  difficulty  of  attain 
ing  it.  Lazarus  plans  to  take  things  easy  in  the 
eleemosynary  line  when  his  children  are  grown  up. 
Dives  will  really  settle  down  to  enjoy  life  when 
he  has  lifted  that  last  million. 

Both  cheat  themselves,  have  always  cheated 
themselves,  and  yet  the  Great  Illusion  endures. 
It  outlasts  love  itself,  for  the  fondest  lovers  are 
glad  at  length  to  turn  away  from  each  other — to 
rest ! 


Where  the  bridegroom  all  night  through 
Shall  not  turn  him  to  the  bride. 


Yes,  dearie,  I  know  it  is  written  that  we  shall 
rest  from  our  labours — but  not  on  this  side  of  the 
[348] 


REST 

heavenly  Jordan.  For  I  have  come  to  fifty  years 
in  this  pilgrimage  of  life,  and  I  do  not  yet  see 
the  beginning  of  my  rest.  The  beginning? — alas, 
when  has  this  old  heart  of  mine  borne  more  anxious 
labour  than  at  present?  Often  it  will  not  let  me 
sleep  o'  nights  for  its  complaining — ah,  what 
things  the  heart  tells  us  at  such  times,  when  it 
seems  to  have  intuition  of  its  destiny!  And  some 
times,  from  a  depth  almost  below  consciousness, 
it  whispers  of  a  boon  it  desires  very  much  and 
yet  fears  to  name.  Rest?  .  .  .  Aye,  rest  indeed! 

BUT  SHORT  of  that  dreaded  consummation, 
do  we — nay,  can  we — ever  really  rest?  We 
are  sure  the  heart  never  stops  beating,  and  there  be 
learned  men  who  affirm  that  the  brain  is  always 
in  a  state  of  activity,  conscious  or  unconscious.  I 
am  apt  to  agree  with  this,  as  I  have  scarcely  slept 
without  dreams  since  boyhood.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  we  go  wrong  with  our  poor  brains  so  over 
worked — never  suffered  to  run  down  even  once  in 
fifty  years !  .  .  . 

There  is  thus  involved  a  double  idea  which  makes 
the  thought  of  final  rest  (as  dissociated  from  the 
fear  of  death)  so  precious  and  consoling  to  us.  It 

[349] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

is  that  we  shall  escape  not  alone  the  "  slings  and 
arrows  of  outrageous  fortune,"  but  also  that  we 
shall  be  freed  from  the  fardels  of  our  own  physi 
cal,  individual  life.  Rest  and  immunity  from  both 
are  to  be  had  only  upon  one  condition — a  condition 
which  does  not  always  seem  so  hard,  dearie,  after 
you  have  come  to  fifty  year! 

Not  that  you  need  love  life  the  less  at  that 
epoch — indeed  you  are  apt  to  love  it  the  more  and 
to  yearn  for  it  as  one  must  for  all  lovely  and  perish 
able  things.  But  while  your  sense  of  the  precious- 
ness  of  life  is  increased,  so  likewise  is  your  per 
ception  of  its  illusions.  In  youth,  in  order  to  gain 
the  keenest  edge  for  our  joys,  we  make  it  a  point 
of  honour  to  ignore  certain  things  that  enter  into 
the  account.  This  might  be  called  the  truce  of 
youth.  Age  is  bound  by  no  such  exigent  comity: 
it  knows  that  the  rose  is  sweet,  and  it  has  an  ironic 
sense  of  what  is  behind  the  sweetness  of  the  rose. 
This  is  not  an  advantage,  in  especial,  except  as  it 
tends  to  facilitate  the  final  abdication  and  bring 
you  to  your  portion  of  rest. 

But  still  we  revolt  against  that,  save  at  the  very 
last  moment,  and  cling  to  the  hope  that  we  shall 
have  the  repose  we  crave  on  less  ineluctable  terms. 
[350] 


REST 

We  want  to  rest,  oh  so  much,  but  also  we  want 
to  live  and  enjoy  it — to  know  that  we  are  resting. 
And  while  we  voice  our  vain  plea  the  heart  and  the 
brain  keep  up  their  unintermittent  labour  and  an 
guish.  How  hard  it  is  to  make  these  children 
understand! 

THERE  IS  an  old  Latin  phrase  which  casts 
some  light  on  the  problem — Parva  domus, 
magna  quies:  Small  is  the  house,  but  great  the 
peace  thereof! 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us,  even  in  age,  that 
we  should  have  here  the  perfect  rest  we  seek.  How 
shall  you  bribe  the  poor  heart  that  wakes  in  sad 
loneliness  at  night  to  weep  over  its  lost  youth  or 
to  tremble  before  the  exaggerated  cares  of  the 
morrow? 

Ah!  there  is  but  one  way,  the  oldest  of  human 
fashions,  which  we  are  too  apt  to  associate  with 
images  of  horror  and  repulsion.  And  though  we 
cry  for  rest — rest — rest  all  the  term  of  our  lives, 
and  insist  that  life  has  been  to  us  a  martyrdom, 
yet  do  we  shrink  from  the  true  Rest  when  at  last 
it  comes  to  our  relief.  See!  it  is  but  a  single  step 
to  the  narrow  house  and  the  great  peace,  the  per- 

[351] 


REALITIES  AND  INVENTIONS 

feet  rest:  but  no!  we  cry  out  in  terror  and  turn 
back  to  the  life  that  has  scourged  us  so  cruelly. 
Anything  but  that!  we  exclaim,  while  the  long 
awaited  and  entreated  One  stands  patient  by.  .  .  . 

How  hard  it  is,  dearie,  to  make  these  children 
understand!  .  .  . 

Give  us  our  rest,  O  Father,  in  thine  own  ap 
pointed  time  and  of  thy  gracious  olden  fashion. 
Lay  thy  annulling  seal  upon  the  o'erlaboured 
heart:  drop  thy  healing  nepenthe  into  the  weary 
brain.  Teach  us  not  to  fear  that  which  brings 
us  nearer  to  Thee.  Suffer  us  to  go  to  sleep 
with  no  more  consciousness  than  the  flowers  that 
take  no  care  for  their  awakening.  Give  us  this 
last  and  best  of  all  thy  gifts — Parva  domus,  magna 
quies! 


[352] 


LAGNIAPPE 


LAGNIAPPE 
ONE 

PHILOSOPHY   IN  LITTLE 

The  Literary  Motive 

IF  YOU  ask  me  what  is  the  first  word  of  art, 
I  answer:  Patience.     And  the  second:  again 
Patience.    And  the  third,  once  more:  Patience! 

ii 

To  write  at  all  it  is  necessary  to  do  both  good 
and  bad  work — the  proportion  is  what  matters. 

in 

A  vast  amount  of  nonsense  is  put  forth  by 
literary  persons  in  the  name  of  posterity.  There 
is  dishonesty  as  well  as  nonsense  in  this.  The 
truth  is,  every  earnest  writer  works  in  and  for 
the  present,  with  little  thought  of  posterity.  With- 

[355] 


LAGNIAPPE 

out  the  stimulus  furnished  by  a  living  audience,  it 
is  very  doubtful  if  any  literature  worth  while 
would  be  produced. 

IV 

Robert  Louis  says  wisely  that  it  is  not  how 
much  we  earn  for  our  day's  wage,  but  how  we 
earn  it,  that  really  matters. 

A  crust  and  freedom  would  suit  me  better  than 
any  sort  of  servitude  or  capitulation,  though 
gilded  with  the  income  of  a  Carnegie.  But  the 
world  is  so  organized  that  one  can  at  best  but 
clutch  the  shadow  of  independence.  Well,  even 
for  the  shadow  I  would  risk  much.  .  .  .Nay,  I 
would  be  the  veriest  beggar  in  thy  courts,  oh 
Liberty ! 


In  the  time  of  Pericles  there  were  no  news 
papers,  yet  even  the  fish-wives  discussed  the  great 
orators  and  poets  in  excellent  Attic.  In  these 
piping  days  of  journalism  everybody  is  taking  on 
the  newspaper  mind  and  our  popular  dialect  is 
become  a  sort  of  disease  borrowed  from  the  lazar- 
house  of  languages. 
[356] 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE 

VI 

Nothing  is  so  difficult  as  to  think,  so  to  speak, 
in  a  straight  line,  for  the  mind's  strongest  tend 
ency  is  to  turn  round  on  itself  like  a  mouse  in  a 
cage.  The  faculty  of  straight-out  thinking  is  one 
of  the  rarest,  and  no  man  who  possesses  it  can 
escape  the  divining  rod  of  Fame.  Sometimes  it 
makes  a  great  philosopher  like  Kant,  or  a  world- 
master  like  Napoleon,  or  a  grand  creative  artist 
like  Balzac, 

VII 

Byron  said  that  Curran  talked  more  and  better 
poetry  than  he  had  ever  read.  Allowing  for  the 
hyperbole,  one  sees  why  Curran  never  wrote  any 
thing  equal  to  such  praise.  Talking  and  writing 
are  two  different  things  and  presuppose  two  very 
different  kinds  of  talent. 

VIII 

No  task  were  possible  did  we  not  see  the  end  of 
it  from  the  beginning,  and  perhaps,  with  all  our 
love  of  life,  we  should  shrink  from  it  with  a  thou 
sand-fold  terror  were  there  no  certainty  of  death. 
Swift's  conception  of  a  tribe  of  human  beings  who 

[357] 


LAGNIAPPE 

could  not  die,  is  justly  voted  the  most  horrible  in 
literature. 

IX 

Every  reflective  genius  needs  the  second  and  the 
third  thought,  and  hence  this  type  is  rarely  great 
or  successful  in  action.  "  I  think  like  a  man  and 
act  like  a  child,"  said  Renan. 

x 

I  have  got  through  caring  much  about  style — • 
what  I  care  for  is  a  man  or  a  woman  who  has 
LIVED.  Mere  style  is  the  affectation  and  wor 
ship  of  pedagogues  or  pinheads. 

XI 

To  hold  the  Ideal  to-day  is  no  assurance  that 
you  will  gain  it  to-morrow: — even  the  humblest 
writer  is  plagued  with  pages  of  past  work  which 
his  heart  misgives  him  he  will  never  again  equal. 

XII 

"  I  have  taken  too  many  crops  out  of  the  brain," 
said  Thackeray,  predicting  his  early  death.     It  is 
the  kind  of  crop,  however,  that  tells.    Bad  writers 
generally  live  long. 
[358] 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE 

XIII 

Lafcadio  Hearn  would  have  given  his  books  to 
the  publishers  for  the  privilege  of  correcting  his 
proofs.  This  is  the  spirit  that  makes  literature 
but  keeps  you  out  of  the  "  best  sellers." 

XIY 

It  is  a  thrilling  thought  that  I  shall  live  while 
my  thought  survives  and  fructifies  in  other  minds. 
Fail  me  not,  thou  inner  light! 

xv 

If  thou  wouldst  have  good  of  thy  genius,  flee 
the  chatterers: — power  is  from  the  Silence. 

XVI 

Plague  on  the  voluminous!  I  had  rather  write 
a  half-dozen  perfect  pages  than  the  "hundred 
novels  of  old  man  Dumas." 

XVII 

Constant  effort  is  the  price  of  literary  produc 
tion  : — the  source  of  talent  is  a  well  that  often  seals 
up  over-night. 

[359] 


LAGNIAPPE 


XVIII 


At  one's  best,  one  writes  up  to  the  level  of 
somebody's  faith  and  love  and  admiration: — 
there  is  no  other  way  to  the  heights. 


XIX 


Perhaps  the  bitterest  thought  that  can  come  to 
a  man  is  that  the  work  to  which  he  has  set  his  hand 
is  not  worth  the  doing  at  all.  And  it  is  a  thought 
that  has  plagued  the  greatest. 


xx 


Balzac's  old  Goriot  says: — "  We  bring  our  chil 
dren  into  the  world  and  they  drive  us  out  of  it." 
This  is  one  of  the  truths  for  telling  which  a  writer 
is  hated  by  the  public. 

XXI 

Nothing  is  rarer  than  to  find  a  writer  possess 
ing  literature  and  life  in  equal  degree.  Of  the 
two  it  is  better,  for  success,  to  be  short  on  litera 
ture  and  long  on  life. 

XXII 

The  day  is  long  for  power  and  purpose;  short 
for  weakness  and  irresolution. 
[360] 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE 

XXIII 

The  first  step  in  learning  how  to  write  is  to 
learn  how  to  feel. 

XXIV 

When  head  and  heart  ripen  together,  rich  is 
the  harvest. 

XXV 

Fail  not  to  make  a  daily  offering  to  the  great 
god  Futility! 

Truths  and  Truisms 

BARRING  ACCIDENTS,  most  people  live 
as  long  as  they  want  to :  the  Life  Force  de 
pends  upon  the  will  even  more  than  is  now  recog 
nized.  But  you  shall  not  keep  the  precious  boon 
of  life  by  fleeing  all  effort,  caring  merely  to  live 
and  lying  close  like  a  hare  in  its  form: — lie  you 
never  so  close  the  thrifty  Reaper  will  not  pass  you 
by.  Therefore,  look  to  it — to  live  is  to  WILL 
and  to  will  is  TO  DO. 

ii 

What  is  it  in  human  nature  that  makes  men 
love  to  grovel  before  fetiches  of  flesh  or  stone? 

[361] 


LAGNIAPPE  • 

Nothing  is  more  certain  than  that  millions  prefer 
such  prostration  to  the  noblest  dignity  and  free 
dom.  To  kowtow  to  any  fool  drest  in  a  little 
brief  authority, — this  is  one  of  the  strongest  and 
most  deeply  rooted  of  human  instincts:  it  is  also 
the  chief  obstacle  to  human  progress.  No  doubt 
it  harks  back  to  those  early  ages  of  the  world,  and 
some  not  so  remote,  when  fear  and  superstition 
were  the  supreme  governing  forces.  And  though 
the  substance  of  these  be  long  since  gone,  the 
shadow  still  affrights  us. 

in 

Candour  is  inculcated  in  all  the  copy-books,  but 
a  man  who  attempts  to  make  his  way  in  the  world 
without  cunning,  both  aggressive  and  defensive, 
soon  finds  himself  as  a  lamb  among  wolves.  It's 
a  pity  that  our  stock  moralities  are  drawn  up  with 
out  reference  to  the  facts  of  life. 

IV 

No  hypocrisy  is  more  common  among  men  than 
a  pretence  of  friendship  and  regard.     And  yet, 
hollow  as  it  is,  nothing  avails  more  to  keep  the 
frame  of  things  together. 
[362] 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE 

v 

We  need  the  friend  that  is  near  much  less  than 
the  friend  that  is  remote.  Perhaps  the  most  pre 
cious  and  helpful  sympathy  acts  only  from  afar. 

VI 

Complain  not  that  thou  art  ever  longing  and 
unsatisfied — to  be  content  and  without  desire  is 
the  portion  of  Age  or  Death. 

VII 

There  is  so  much  treachery  in  the  run  of  men 
that  Jesus  Christ  ought  to  be  accepted  as  Divine 
from  this  fact  alone — that  He  managed  to  pick 
twelve  with  but  one  traitor  among  them! 

VIII 

In  former  years  I  was  somewhat  romantically 
inclined,  but  now  I  find  myself  apt  to  agree  with 
Bacon,  that  there  is  very  little  friendship  among 
men.  Still,  I  continue  to  dream  of  a  friend! 

IX 

The  tongue  is  an  obscene  member,  as  certain 
votaries  of  Venus  well  know;  one  does  not  readily 

[363] 


LAGNIAPPE  • 

show  it,  even  to  the  doctor.     Have  a  care  of  thy 
tongue — it  may  be  the  primeval  Snake! 

x 

There  is  consolation  behind  every  catastrophe. 
Nothing  better  attests  the  wisdom  of  the  Greeks 
than  the  eternal  fable  of  Pandora. 

XI 

Disraeli's  famous  saying  that  no  sensible  man 
ever  tells  his  religion,  is  in  some  danger  of  being 
discredited  with  Dr.  Eliot  and  so  many  others 
rushing  into  print.  But  are  they  really  telling? 

XII 

Many  a  soul  dies  in  terror  to  awake  and  find 
God  smiling  upon  it. 

XIII 

To  be  free  is  to  be  alone.  The  herd  may  admire 
and  envy  your  state,  but  all  the  same  they  give 
you  the  road  and  go  by  on  the  other  side. 

XIV 

There  is  enough  good  in  life  to  make  us  wish 
to  live  forever  and  enough  evil  to  reconcile  us  to 
any  death. 
[364] 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE 

xv 

Seen  from  Sirius,  doubtless  our  troubles  are  not 
of  so  much  consequence. 

XVI 

That  men  do  not  live  too  long  is  perhaps  the 
one  thing  for  which  they  have  sound  reason  to 
be  grateful. 

XVII 

To  praise  a  man's  talent  and  a  woman's  beauty, 
though  you  do  not  believe  in  either,  is  the  most 
profitable  of  perjuries. 

XVIII 

Let  us  not  hate  life  because  we  have  to  relin 
quish  it,  but  let  us  fold  our  tent  with  serenity  and 
pass  out  with  a  Hail !  to  the  advancing  generations. 

XIX 

I  have  known  many  men,  and  many  more  have 
heard  my  name,  but  the  friends  of  my  heart — ah, 
how  easy  it  is  to  number  them! 

[365] 


LAGNIAPPE 

xx 

Age  enables  us  to  see  life  stripped  of  illusions, 
even  as  autumn  shows  us  the  wood  in  its  bare 
anatomy. 

XXI 

There  isn't  a  single  laugh  in  the  Bible  from 
beginning  to  end.  This  is  no  laughing  matter. 

The  Woman 

"QHE  IS  a  fool,  Barry,"  says  Sir  Charles 
^  Lyndon,  referring  to  his  amiable  consort, 
"  but  she  will  kill  you  as  she  has  killed  me." 
Nothing  in  that  masterpiece  of  "  Barry  Lyndon  " 
better  certifies  the  greatness  of  Thackeray.  And 
they  call  him  satirist  because  he  would  not  blink 
the  facts  of  life! 

ii 

In  the  time  of  Montaigne  a  man  was  considered 
old  at  forty;  nowadays  there  is  a  well-marked 
period  of  second  youth,  fruitful  in  romance,  which 
sets  in  about  forty-five  and  may  run  to  sixty — • 
it  all  depends  on  the  woman. 
[366] 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE 

in 

I  love  women — oh  yes,  I  confess  it! — but  I  must 
say  that  I  have  never  seen  the  Principle  of  Evil 
incarnate  in  a  man  in  such  a  degree  as  now  and 
then  it  appears  in  a  woman. 

IV 

Tell  a  woman  one  thing  about  herself  which  she 
does  not  like  to  hear,  and  you  stand  bare  in  her 
regard,  with  no  shred  of  grace  from  all  your  pre 
vious  loyalty  and  lip  service. 


The  Garden  of  Eden  story  is  now  generally  dis 
credited,  but  a  long  time  yet  will  be  required  to 
clear  up  the  character  of  the  Snake  and  the 
Woman. 

VI 

Fortune  is  personified  as  a  woman,  not  merely 
for  that  it  is  fickle,  but  because,  in  a  deep  sense, 
woman  is  the  bringer  of  most  good  or  evil  fortune. 

VII 

When  age  forbids  a  woman  to  attract  with  her 
sex  she  sometimes  falls  back  on  the  ordinary  hu- 

[367] 


LAGNIAPPE 

man  virtues.     This  is  a  compensation  not  to  be 
despised. 


VIII 


There  has  never  been  discovered  an  acceptable 
substitute  for  youth — but  women  continue  to  rum 
mage  the  vanity  shops. 


IX 


To  have  love  is  to  have  power: — Love  is  the 
mighty  parent  and  begetter. 


The  true  test  of  love  comes  when  both  man  and 
woman  have  reached  a  "  certain  "  age. 

XI 

Never  look  to  be  forgiven  by  the  man  who  has 
wronged  you.  The  woman,  however,  sometimes 
relents. 

XII 

There  has  never  been  a  kingdom  of  this  or  any 
other  world  that  a  man  would  not  throw  away  for 
the  woman  of  his  heart. 
[368] 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  LITTLE 

XIII 

It  is  a  law  of  Nature  that  sex  should  preoccupy 
the  best  years  of  life — an  unjust  law  most  of  us 
feel,  sooner  or  later. 

XIV 

Is  this  the  climacteric — when  a  man  stops  see 
ing  the  faces  of  women  in  his  dreams? 

xv 

To  hate  where  one  has  loved  is  an  exquisite  in 
dulgence  which  some  people  mistake  for  a  virtue. 

XVI 

The  illusion  of  sex  countenances  all  the  other 
illusions. 


[369] 


TWO 

THE  GRAIN  OF  WHEAT 

IT  IS  curious  how  the  vital  word — the  electric 
spark  of  true  feeling  or  passion — survives  in 
literature,  though  it  have  to  be  recovered  even  as 
a  single  grain  of  wheat  from  many  bushels  of 
chaff.  I  felt  this  strongly  t'other  day  in  look 
ing  through  Hazlitt's  lectures  on  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists.  Rather  a  dull  book  in  the  main,  I 
fear,  though  Hazlitt  is  one  of  my  cherished  famil 
iars;  dull  not  so  much  by  fault  of  the  lecturer  as 
by  the  intolerable  length,  and  too  often  most  un- 
poetic  quality  of  many  of  the  "  specimens  "  pre 
sented.  And  decidedly  hard  reading.  It  seems 
wonderful  that  Hazlitt  found  an  audience  to  sit 
them  out,  and  I  suspect  they  confirmed  his  friend 
Lamb  in  those  humourous  prejudices  of  his  against 
lecturing,  which  find  expression  in  one  of  his 
quaint  letters. 

Hazlitt's  own  sound  talk,  without  close  reference 
[370] 


THE  GRAIN  OF  WHEAT 

to  his  subject,  is  much  the  better  part  of  these 
lectures,  though  I  go  not  so  far  as  to  say  they  were 
not  worth  doing.  Indeed,  I  would  utter  no  such 
censure  upon  any  work  of  honest  Hazlitt's.  Only 
I  wish  there  were  more  of  him  to  the  "  intolerable 
deal "  of  Elizabethan. 

But  to  my  point.  How  the  vital  word  leaps 
out  from  those  musty  old  forgotten  plays  which, 
generally  without  true  inspiration  or  artistic 
"  staying  power,"  and  written  in  a  manner  almost 
obsolete,  scarce  the  talent  of  Hazlitt  could  serve 
to  make  interesting.  Profiting  by  his  pioneer  la 
bours  in  this  field,  I  offer  a  few  instances. 

Old  Decker's  monument  is  in  one  line — a  char 
acterization  of  Christ: 

"The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed" 

John  Lyly's  little  Campaspe  song  of  a  dozen 
lines,  which  tells  how  Cupid  lost  his  eyes  to  the 
beauty,  has  long  survived  his  plays. 

Of  Marlowe,  that  mighty  young  rival  of  Shake 
speare,  we  have  strictly  speaking  only  one  line — 

Was  this  the,  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships? 

[371] 


0 

* 


LAGNIAPPE 

The  couplet, 

Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full 

straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough, 

though  memorable  from  its  application  to  the  poet 
himself,  is  seldom  quoted  even  by  scholars. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have — 

'tis  not  a  life, 
3Tis  but  a  piece  of  childhood  thrown  away, 

in  admiring  the  simple  pathos  of  which  we  may 
well  echo  the  praise  of  Hazlitt. 

Beaumont    alone    has    the    world-famous    and 
memorable— 

What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid! 

Also: 

So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtile  flame,. 
And  (less  often  quoted)  — 

Nothing  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 
[372] 


THE  GRAIN  OF  WHEAT 

Ben  Jonson,  who  thought  himself  a  peg  or  two 
above  Shakespeare,  and  who  certainly  wrote  a  ton 
of  learned  rubbish,  has— 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

for  which  a  world  of  lovers  should  forgive  him 
much;  as  also— 

Oh  so  white!    Oh  so  soft!    Oh  so  sweet  is  she! 
And  the  noble  apostrophe— 

Dear  son  of  memory  and  great  heir  of  fame. 

With  a  few  other  familiar  references  to  Shake 
speare.  And  that  exquisiteness  in  little — 

"  the,  bag  oj  the  bee.JJ 

Here's  shrinkage,  of  a  truth;  but  'tis  the  fan 
with  which  winnowing  Time  has  sifted  the  Eliza 
bethans,  some  of  whom  plumed  themselves,  the 
public  concurring,  on  their  successful  rivalry  of 
Shakespeare.  In  truth,  the  great  William  seems 
not  to  have  been  inclined  to  contradict  them,  for 

[373] 


LAGNIAPPE 

does  he  not  modestly  speak  of  his  "  desiring  this 
man's  art  and  that  man's  scope,"  etc.?  It  seems 
to  me  not  the  least  wonderful  circumstance  of  the 
glorious  legend  of  Shakespeare.  .  .  . 

I  trust  the  valiant  reader  who  has  come  so  far 
with  me  may  reckon  not  vainly  that  he  has  gleaned 
a  few  grains  of  wheat  by  the  way,  now  that  we 
have  reached 


THE  END. 


[374] 


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